


THE BOYS OF BAKER STREET

by skyefullofstars



Series: THERE BUT FOR THE GRACE OF JOHN WATSON [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Assassination, Cold blooded Murder, Drug Addiction, Explicit Language, F/M, Homophobic Language, Hurt / Comfort, M/M, Memories of Child Abuse, Minor Character Death, Murder, Nightmare, Non con drug use, Restrained Interrogation Techniques, Sexual Content, Slash, Suicide Attempt, Violence, disturbing imagery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-28
Updated: 2012-11-08
Packaged: 2017-11-17 05:33:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 24
Words: 287,903
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/548151
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/skyefullofstars/pseuds/skyefullofstars
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>As John Watson struggles with the aftermath of his kidnapping and forced drug abuse, Sherlock goes after those who would continue to harm the man he loves.  Mycroft grapples with a very real threat to his brother and the government he has sworn to protect.  NOW COMPLETE.</p><p>Sequel to: THERE BUT FOR THE GRACE OF JOHN WATSON.<br/>Prequel to: SHERLOCK and JOHN - REBELLION OF ANGELS, Parts One and Two.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gorgeous art created for this work by Youcantsaymylastname here: http://youcantsaymylastname.tumblr.com/post/23521890255/if-you-havent-read-this-story-or-her-first-one-i

**These Characters, in their current incarnation, belong to the BBC and in their original incarnation, to the estate of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, may his name be blessed!**

**THE BOYS OF BAKER STREET**

**CH. 1**

**This ongoing work is a trilogy.  This is Book Two.  It occasionally references events from Book One:  THERE BUT FOR THE GRACE OF JOHN WATSON. If you have not read GRACE, you might not "get" all the references here and you might want to stop now and go read GRACE first, then proceed with BOYS. I'm just saying ...**

**Rating is there for a reason, dear Reader. HERE BE LANGUAGE - and MEN GOING AT IT. BE WARNED.**

OooOooO

Us Against the World

Against the World

You and I, we've been at it so long

I still got the strongest fire

You and I, we still know how to talk

Know how to walk that wire

Sometimes I feel like The world is against me

The sound of your voice, baby

That's what saves me

When we're together I feel so invincible

Cause it's us against the world

 Cause it's us against the world  
You and me against them all  
If you listen to these words  
Know that we are standing tall

Yeah it's us against the world

Tonight

"Us Against the World"

( c) WESTLIFE

OooOooO

**"Hold still."**

**"Sherlock -"**

**"No, John, I can do this. Just - hold still."**

**"Sherlock, let me - I'm well enough that I can-"**

**"John! You are left-handed; may I remind you of the tremor?"**

**"Sherlock, damn it! I may be left-handed but I can bloody well do this with my right hand."**

**"No, John. You cannot. Not without risking serious injury to yourself. Besides...it's not as if I haven't done it before."**

**"Yes, well, that's rather beside the point."**

**"I don't really see the difference, John. Now if you'll just move a little to the left - ah, that's it."**

**"Sherlock, do you really think that you-gaww...!"**

**"You're doing it wrong."**

**At the quiet amusement in her words, both men stop and glance up at the door of John's hospital room.**

**Lori Hansen stands there, her arms full of flowers and wrapped packages.**

**She smiles at both of them and comes into John's room. She glances around, lays the packages on the divan under the window and gently places the flowers on the sill.**

**Shrugging out of her coat, she comes over to John's bed – and holds out her hand.**

**Pursing his lips, Sherlock looks at John, who studiously avoids his gaze, and hands her the safety razor.**

**She glances at John's face, reddening now with embarrassment, and then bends over and gently swipes the razor over the line of foam along his jaw.**

**"See? He likes it like this."**

**She swipes the razor in one firm line, rinses it quickly in the bowl of water on the table by John's bed, then gently, firmly finishes up with the remaining line up his cheek.**

**Standing back, she and Sherlock examine the man sitting up in the bed, his cheeks now a bright crimson.**

**Lori nods. "There. That should do it."**

**She rinses the razor in the water one last time, shakes it, lays it on the table. Then she hands the small damp towel to John, who takes it slowly, still not meeting Sherlock's gaze.**

**Lori looks from him to Sherlock, who has both eyebrows raised nearly into his curly hairline. Sudden understanding lights up her brown eyes.**

**She laughs softly, quietly amused.**

**"I'm sorry. It's just that - well I did this for him at the Wellington –" She breaks off sharply as the detective frowns at her.**

**Lori turns and picks up the flowers, looks around for something to put them in. Neither man says a word.**

**She glances back at John and smiles again, a sudden mischievous smile. She cannot help teasing him now that they are safe. _Maybe it's a defense mechanism,_ she tells herself. **

**Maybe it's just the joy of being alive. But there's just something so – teasible – about Doctor John Watson.**

**"Of course, Doctor Watson, you were unconscious each time. It made for a most - compliant shave. You were as quiet as a lamb. Never a peep out of you."**

**Sherlock's gaze goes from the diminutive nurse slowly to John's face. His stare is frosty.**

**"Well," he says slowly. "I can see I am not needed here."**

**The detective turns and walks out of John's hospital room, his fists in the pockets of his trousers.**

**John buries his face in his hands, peeks out at Hansen between his fingers.**

**"You have NO IDEA what you just did," he whispers softly.**

**Lori looks at the stiff back of the retreating detective.**

**"Don't worry," she says thoughtfully, "I'm sure he'll get over it."**

**She turns back to John to plant a quick kiss on his forehead.**

**"Now, let's see to these flowers, okay? You can both open your Christmas gifts when he gets over his snit and returns."**

**She finds an extra water carafe in the tiny bathroom, and quickly arranges the bright flowers, sits them in John's windowsill. John just watches her, a curious expression on his face.**

**Sherlock wanders back in at that time, looks bloody murder at Hansen, who smiles serenely back at him. She hands him a slim, festively wrapped package, gently places a slightly bulkier one on John's lap.**

" **Well, go ahead. Haven't got all day. Joe's picking me up in—"she glances at her watch, "in about 20 minutes."**

**Sherlock decides if it will get rid of her faster, he tears into the package. Stares at the book in his hand. " _The Life and Times of Jack the Ripper."_**

**He looks up at her in utter amazement.**

**She glances at the book and grins. "Turn to the first page, Mr. Holmes." (Despite all his protests, she refuses to call him anything but Mr. Holmes. Sherlock gives it up as a lost cause.)**

**He flips to the page she indicates, raises an eyebrow. "It's signed by the author."**

**He looks at her and grins. He glances at his partner, who watches him carefully.**

**_Honestly,_ thinks Sherlock, _there are times he can actually hear John in his head._**

**He smiles at Hansen. "Thank you for the thoughtful gift. It will make a valuable addition to my collection."**

**He looks from the tiny nurse to John, who watches the interplay with an amused expression on his tired face. John nods imperceptibly at Sherlock's proper response and Sherlock feels a frisson of warmth in his chest.**

" **Well, go on, John, you're next," says Sherlock.**

**John rips through the paper of his package, unfolds layers of tissue paper. His eyes widen. He holds up a V-necked jumper in a soft dark blue color, wondrously soft and guaranteed to bring out his eye color.**

" **Wow. Thanks, Lori. It's great."**

**The nurse smiles delightedly. She looks at John thoughtfully.**

" **When they brought you in, you had on some sort of oatmeal-colored jumper. Ruined by the blood, of course. I thought this might make a good substitute. Honestly, that color—"she breaks off as she notices both men have gone extremely quiet.**

**She colors, lowers her head and bites her lip. When she is composed again, she raises her head and leans over to give John another small kiss on his cheek.**

" **Doctor Watson, I just want you and Mr. Holmes to know that – if there's anything I can ever help you with – well, you saved my life back there. You saved me from that monster, Moran. And now I have Joe in my life and, well - I – I will never forget it. Neither of us will. Not ever."**

**John looks at her, a puzzled expression on his face. He nods slowly, utterly at sea. "Okay."**

**Lori picks up her coat and purse and turns to go. She stops by Sherlock's side and glances up at the detective, her eyes wide.**

**_She knows_ , thinks Sherlock _. She knows now that John has no memories of his actions back there in the hallway of the Wellington._**

" **Happy Christmas," murmurs Lori, her eyes suddenly suspiciously bright.**

**Both men repeat "Happy Christmas" to her and she's gone.**

**John looks at the soft blue jumper thoughtfully.**

OooOooO

One day after John wakes up – and after his first attack - Sherlock begins to mark time in small victories.

Victory number one: John is able – finally - to eat.

Dr. Merit tells Sherlock that if John cannot keep food down, he will have to be put on a feeding tube. John stares at Sherlock and says, "Bloody hell." And he tries drinking the sweetened tea they bring him.

No joy.

Later, the head nurse comes in to check on John, reads his chart, takes one good long look at John, shakes her head and goes out. She comes back into John's room a few minutes later with a small cup, one third full of a dark liquid, and orders John to drink. When Sherlock asks what it is, she smiles.

"Coke, room temperature." Her soft Scottish accent brooks no argument from the good doctor.

She holds the cup out toward John; he looks her in the eyes, and takes the cup in a slightly shaking hand.

Twenty minutes later, John and Sherlock smile when they realize that John has not tossed his cookies all over the bed sheets.

Over the next two hours, John manages to drink – and keep down - the rest of the small can of cola.

The next morning, he is even a little hungry and successfully attempts a few bites of scrambled egg. At lunch, he manages the apple sauce without gagging. Sherlock cautiously breathes a sigh of relief. One major hurdle down, hopefully.

 _Only 900 to go_ , he thinks.

Victory Number Two: On the same day he begins to eat, John is able to, finally, sit up in bed for a while. His nurses prop small pillows behind his back and neck, then help ease him up from the nearly horizontal position he's been in for days. Sherlock comes into John's room from a quick consultation with Dr. Merit - to find John sitting up and smiling at him, and his heart gives a little lurch. This one small triumph goes a long way toward dispelling some of the depression that has settled in both men's' chests. They grin at each other.

That same day, the much hated Foley is removed, John is allowed to use the facilities and he thinks he might – just – recover after all.

Victory Number Three: With Sherlock's help, John is able to take a real, honest-to-God shower in the small bathroom. His day nurse comes in to bathe John, and agrees to remove all of the tubes long enough for John to clean up. She brings waterproof wraps for his ribs and thigh and promises to help him take the short walk to the shower but is called away to an emergency.

"Stay put, I'll be right back," she says.

The emergency takes longer than she counts on and when she returns, she is surprised to find her patient clean, his hair freshly shampooed and combed and dressed in his best jim jams, the ones with the Watson tartan pattern.

Sherlock sits smugly by John's side – and if she notices that the consulting detective's hair is also damp and that there are not one but two sets of wet footprints – and damp towels - on the tiled floor of the bathroom, well, she overlooks it. She hooks up the various medication bags again , re-checks his bandages and goes back out, smiling.

**_Day three after he wakes up – John has his second attack. Sherlock's heart sinks._ **

Sherlock sits with Lestrade, side by side, there on the divan in John's hospital room, the one he sleeps on when John is able to rest. They speak in muted tones, at first, while John rests a few feet away.

When Lestrade first appears with file folders, Sherlock checks on John, who appears to be sleeping, and then nods, almost eagerly, at Lestrade. He needs to give his mind something or he is going to go mad.

The doctor's eyes still appear sunken, smudged. Every time Sherlock looks at John's face – and he looks at John's face a hundred times a day – his heart aches to see how tight the skin is drawn over John's skull, at how thin the doctor has become. But the physical changes do not hold a candle to the emotional upheavals evident in John's behavior. Sherlock hardly notices the cloud that has settled around his heart, he is so busy worrying about the one that surrounds John's.

Mrs. Hudson's Christmas tree glows on their window sill, the window that now looks out on a world awash in grey. The snow has melted rapidly in the past few days, helped on by a cold rain shower that unexpectedly drenches London two days after Christmas. More snow is in the forecast for later this week.

New Year's is bent on repeating the snow storm that greeted Londoners Christmas morning.

In the meantime, the city and its environs has turned into a world of wet roads, with pockets of dirty snow piled in the corners of the streets. Just before Lestrade arrives, and while John's nurses change his sheets and check his vitals, Sherlock goes out to smoke, something he tries to hide from John. He looks down at leaves flattened into the soggy ground by the weight of snow melt. The sky remains a dark grey color, overlaid with striations of white. It fits in perfectly with the detective's mood.

It is still very cold, but warmer than it was a few days ago. Sherlock takes in a breath. He lets the utter coldness fill his lungs. His breath huffs out in front of him. He plunges his hands back into the pockets of his coat and stares at the overcast sky. The cold breeze ruffles his dark hair, creeps under his collar and into his veins.

Before he goes back in to John, he pops two breath mints in his mouth. He knows he's probably not fooling John one bit.

But right now, the Army doctor has other things to worry about.

They both do.

OooOooO

"How's he doing," Lestrade says in a quiet voice. He jerks his head toward John's bed.

Sherlock sighs. "He can eat and actually keep the food down. They let him sit up now for extended periods of time."

"That's good, right?" says the DI.

Sherlock turns his head to study John's sleeping figure. He notes how John's hands, particularly the left one, twitch in the sheets.

"Yes," he says. "That's good."

He does not mention his two conversations with John's doctor to the DI. John would not appreciate his diagnosis being known to the DI or to anyone at New Scotland Yard.

Actually, John has not heard it yet either. Sherlock notes that the doctor has not asked. The thought makes him frown.

"Sherlock, I brought some notes on Moriarty's operation and thought you might want to go over them." And if I could get your opinion on these two new cases, I'd appreciate it."

Sherlock nods absently, his glance flickers from Lestrade's comforting face to John. He watches John's chest rise and fall.

The DI looks at John again, then back at the detective. "Sherlock, I would understand if you want to just table all of this right now."

"God, don't leave. He's driving me insane," comes John's hoarse whisper.

Startled, both the DI and the detective look at John, who does not open his eyes, and then at each other – and smile.

"Well, in that case," murmurs Sherlock. He takes the first file folder from Lestrade. He raises his voice slightly so as to include his partner in their conversation. Whether or not John wants to be included is beside the point. Sherlock wants him to hear and that is that.

Sherlock glances through the pages, there aren't many. He stares at the crime scene photos, then frowns. He looks up at Lestrade.

"Lestrade, I do not understand how your people manage to keep their positions, let alone function as adult human beings. It should be obvious that Jenner is your man."

He leans toward Lestrade, holds a color photo between his fingertips. Lestrade sighs and looks at the photo he has already looked at a half dozen times.

"Play nice, Sherlock," comes John's quiet admonition. He still has not opened his eyes.

Sherlock glances in John's direction. "But, John, honestly –"

"I said, play nice," the whisper is a tired one now and neither of the other men want to make him repeat himself, so –

Sherlock sighs dramatically. "Yes, John."

Lestrade just smiles.

One elegant finger points. "See? The leaves are crushed here – and here. You can even see the heel imprint of a boot. And your main witness tells you—"

"Sherlock – they're bloody well crushed all over the damn photo."

"No, Greg, they aren't. See? These here are fine, no breaks, -"

"They could have fallen since the crime—"

"Honestly, Greg! The color! They are all the same color, the rate of deterioration of the veining; all fell at the same time. The man obviously jumped from the tree here, landed here, and going by your description of Jenner's clothing – particularly his boots –"

"Yes, yes, I see what you mean. But cut us some slack here Sherlock –"

"Slack! Your trained chimps—"

"Sherlock, my people are not chimpanzees—"

The give and take flows around John and he – almost – grins at the familiarity of it. Almost.

As the familiar banter flows over him, twenty minutes pass. John slips into a dream.

In his dream, as he reaches out to take Sherlock's hand – and nearly, so nearly – touches those elegant fingers, his heart rate accelerates. The subcutaneous itching sensation is back and the heat in his veins threatens to burn him alive from the inside out.

In his dream state, John frowns. He grows restless.

A fire grows in his mind.

No one notices.

Sherlock holds the file folders in his long fingers, lets them dangle between him and Lestrade.

He shakes his head. "Greg, what did you think it meant when you found not only fresh wine stains on the carpet but – "

"Sherlock, I am asking you what **_you_** think happened – that is why I am here."

Sherlock leans forward, his fingers clutching the files. "Good God, Lestrade, if you would just train your people to observe –"

The sudden groan, when it comes, is quiet, barely noticeable, but Sherlock is up and at John's side in an instant, the files ignored as they slide to the floor, including the bulkier one with Moriarty' s name on it.

John Watson is attempting to wake up. His fists clench in the sheets and his legs thrash.

Startled, Lestrade stands. The detective leans over John, determinedly pins the doctor's wrists to the bed as John furiously struggles to rise, to strike out, to get out of that damned bed.

Sherlock looks up quickly at Lestrade, who stands there, wide-eyed, pale.

"Get the nurse! Now! For gods' sakes. Move!"

Lestrade rushes from the room.

"Sherlock! Let me up – I have to—"

"No, John, you are staying in this bed until the nurse comes in to –"

"Damn you, Sherlock Holmes! You bloody **_fuck_**! "

John struggles in the detective's grip but his strength is no match for his partner's. His entire body is involved in his frantic struggles and Sherlock holds him down firmly, while he tries to avoid being kicked in the groin as the doctor does his damnedest to roll out of the bed.

John Watson pants like he is running a race and makes a supreme effort to throw off Sherlock's hands where they hold his wrists down to the sheets next to his head. His head thrashes back and forth, and he grits his teeth.

"What the fuck _good_ are you, Sherlock? What fucking good are you if you can't **_help_** me when I –"

His head suddenly arches back, as his spine arches upward. John's breath comes in loud ragged gasps.

"Oh, God," John groans. "God! burning… just fucking burning!" Sherlock's eyes narrow.

Sherlock continues to hold John's hands. He tries to let the wash of frantic curses flow over him.

" _Don't listen,"_ he thinks. _"Don't listen. These are the things I threw at Mycroft, all those years ago. And at Lestrade."_

He frowns into John's dark eyes, now a storm of pain and desperation.

" _This isn't John,"_ he thinks.

John closes his eyes briefly, new frown lines across his forehead. He opens them again, stares at the ceiling, refuses to meet Sherlock's cold gaze. His breath deepens and comes in harsh gasps. His entire body shakes now with tremors so violent, the detective is afraid they threaten to break a bone or dislodge a rib into one of John's tortured lungs.

John grits his teeth and groans. His dark storm-tossed eyes finally meet the cool gray ones above him.

He stares at Sherlock with utter contempt.

"I hate you, you bastard! You know that, right?"

" _This isn't John,_ " Sherlock Holmes tells himself. _"Not John."_

Out loud all he says is, "Yes, John, I know."

The head nurse rushes in, followed slowly by the DI, who hangs back, stares at the heartbreaking scene in front of him. His eyes widen and he looks from one man to the other. Understanding dawns. Lestrade's shoulders slump and his eyes reflect a look of infinite sadness.

Outside their door, Mycroft's agent sends another text.

The nurse injects the hypo into John's IV while John continues to struggle in Sherlock's grasp. The detective keeps John's wrists pinned firmly against the pillow, trying to restrain the doctor without physically hurting him.

John shuts his eyes, attempts to shut out the entire hateful world.

He is nearly hyperventilating now. The tremors seem to increase, rather than decrease in violence. Sherlock frowns, raises his head to look at the nurse.

"How much longer?" he snaps.

She shakes her head, finishes with the injection, tosses the empty hypo onto the table. She follows the injection with another one to clean the line. Finally, she tosses that one onto the table next to John's bed and then moves to look at her patient.

She frowns. John has managed to tear out one of the IV ports, the one still administering antibiotics. It dangles by his left hand and leaves a tiny trail of blood behind it.

She and Sherlock note it but cannot do a thing about it until the tormented doctor stops struggling.

While Sherlock continues to hold John's wrists, she strokes her fingers through John's dark blonde hair.

"Doctor Watson? John … you have got to calm down. Please. Just calm down and let us help you."

John slowly stops struggling as the hypo finally takes effect. His skin is waxy, pale, tinged with grey. Sweat drips from every pore. The pajamas he wears and the bed sheets are drenched. His eyes are wide, the dark blue gone darker, his pupils nearly blown now, from the effects of the medication.

He looks up at Sherlock as if he doesn't recognize him .

Sherlock looks back at his partner, grim-faced. "John?"

John Watson stares at the detective above him; his eyes do not blink.

"I hate you, you bastard," he whispers.

He shuts his eyes, slowly goes limp in Sherlock's steady grip.

Sherlock stares back at him, his gaze stony.

Finally, finally, the nurse nods at Sherlock. He gently releases John's wrists and straightens up. He does not move from John's side, but continues to look down at his partner as John's breathing deepens, slows.

" _This is killing me,"_ he thinks tiredly. " _It's killing both of us. And it's just beginning. Oh, God, John..."_

In the doorway, Greg Lestrade stares at the tableau in front of him, his eyes wide and his heart aching.

OooOooO

New Year's is three days away. John is desperate – and in more or less constant emotional and mental pain. Since the attack, John does not speak to the detective half the time that he is awake. He turns his head away from Sherlock and studies the flowers on the sill, glares at the Christmas tree in the window. The nurses bring him magazines, the daily newspapers. John lets them drop to the floor and ignores every effort to engage him in conversation.

Most of the time, he shuts his eyes and tries to sleep. Or pretends to.

Sherlock is more physically tired than he's ever been in his life.

We will not speak of the detective's emotional exhaustion. Or of his growing despair.

OooOooO

"We have to move him into the cardio intensive care unit so he can be monitored around the clock," says Dr. Merit. "Frankly, I should have moved him there after the first attack."

Sherlock and Mycroft, who has come by to visit John, sit in the same chairs in Dr. Merit's office as before. Sherlock, restless, ever restless, stands abruptly and paces around the room.

He reads the diplomas on the wall without really seeing them.

"We were making progress," he says. At his tone of voice, Mycroft's shoulders flinch. He looks from Merit to his brother's back as he stands a few feet away from them.

Sherlock finally turns around and fixes his cold gaze on Dr. Merit.

"Progress. Moving him is a step backwards. It will seem that way to John."

Merit looks from Sherlock's steady gaze to Mycroft, who says nothing.

"Mr. Holmes, I'm not certain what progress you refer to. If you mean that Doctor Watson is eating and sitting up, yes. He is getting stronger and able to walk short distances, his – more obvious – wounds are healing, slowly but they are healing. So all of these things are a plus. If you are referring to his physical reactions to the drug –"

Sherlock comes to stand directly in front of Merit's desk, next to Mycroft, who watches the proceedings without speaking. His voice is cold to the extreme.

"We sat here a few days ago and you told us that none of the normal reversal agents worked for John. You told us to expect the – I believe you referred to it as 'the addiction response' – to make itself evident soon. Dr. Merit, I have watched John while he slept those five days. He was already experiencing this hell while asleep and now he's going through it all over again when he's awake. But if you move him out of that room, it will only drive his condition home to him in a way that nothing else will –"

"Mr. Holmes, please sit down. I find it difficult to speak to you while you are—" he breaks off as Sherlock sits abruptly, next to Mycroft.

Merit clasps his hands together in front of him and looks at both Holmes brothers.

"I am in constant touch with my colleagues throughout the UK and several located in Switzerland and Germany. We don't know enough about this particular drug or its effects to safely prescribe treatment, other than the opioids we are currently using for pain. As I told you both, we did use Naloxone when Doctor Watson was first brought in, unconscious, but it has had little if no effect. That is the agent commonly used – "

"-for Heroin overdoses," supplies Sherlock steadily. He deliberately does not look sideways at Mycroft, who stiffens slightly in his seat. Neither brother looks at the other.

But Mycroft has gone pale again.

Mycroft clears his throat, studies his fingertips where he has them clasped in front of him. Sherlock and Dr. Merit look at him.

"Dr. Merit, if Doctor Watson were moved to a more - private facility - one in which he would receive the around-the-clock monitoring you speak of, one where he would feel more relaxed in his surroundings, which he obviously does not feel in a hospital environment –"

"In that instance, Mycroft, I would unhesitatingly agree to his transfer, but I'd have to know where you intend to transfer him and who would be in charge of his care."

Merit looks at both Holmes brothers and raises an eyebrow.

"Mycroft, I'm well aware your family has – far-reaching connections, but while he is here at St. Anne's, Doctor Watson remains under my care. I am not certain that moving him to another facility is going to help any more than simply moving him one floor up to the cardio ward. He will receive 24-hour monitoring there; he will still have some privacy. The rooms are actually quite comfortable since we will be putting Doctor Watson in the new cardio wing. Space will not be an issue." He glances at Sherlock here. "But we simply cannot risk him having another attack and Mr. Holmes or yourself possibly not being in the room when the next incident occurs."

Neither Sherlock or Mycroft speak. They watch Merit.

Dr. Merit thinks a minute. "He is on a heart monitor and each time, it recorded a marked increase in his heart rate, but this was not noticed immediately, because he is one of several patients on his current floor. What helped Doctor Watson, certainly, each time, was the fact that Mr. Holmes was in the room with him."

He looks directly into Sherlock's eyes. "What if you are not in the room for the next attack? I need that man to be on 24-hour monitoring and I intend to move him, now, today, as soon as a room is ready." He glances at his watch, "which I am told will be in approximately three to four hours."

He looks back up. "Doctor Watson will receive the monitoring he needs; the next time this occurs –" Sherlock flinches at the phrase 'next time' – "the next time it occurs, a nursing staff will be on hand to immediately note the increase in his heart rate and can be at his side in a matter of seconds, to administer the medication I have prescribed for him. Frankly, as I told you both before, I fear for the long-term effects these attacks are having on his heart if they continue. And gentlemen, I have every reason to believe they will continue. Frankly, I have never seen a cardio response this marked in a – situation – such as this. To be honest, I've never dealt with a situation quite like this one."

He picks up John's file and glances through it, raises an eyebrow. He looks back up at the Holmes brothers. "If you make the decision to transfer Doctor Watson to another facility – and I can do nothing to stop you – then we have to be certain he is monitored during the transfer, that you have trained medical personnel with him at all times, that –"

"All of that would be taken care of," says Mycroft, "if the decision is made."

Mycroft leans forward, laces his fingers together and stares at Merit. "William, I have an important question to ask – both of us want to ask."

At his side, Sherlock turns abruptly and goes back to the window, his back to the room.

Merit nods encouragingly.

Mycroft fixes Dr. Merit with his unnerving gaze. "Why is John Watson still alive?"

Behind him, Sherlock says nothing but his fists clench in his pockets.

Merit looks from Sherlock's figure in front of the window, nearly vibrating with intensity, to Mycroft's quiet demeanor.

"I'm not certain I follow…"

Mycroft sighs. He leans over to pick up John's file.

"Three victims here in London are all dead. We understand why the third one died – Madison – he was apparently given a massive amount of the drug at one time, which we believe to be a slipup on the part of whoever administered the drug - but why did the first two die? Were they all deliberately administered overly large amounts of this drug? They all died, William, but John Watson, who had nine injections of this drug in just five days, is alive and breathing – and might, eventually, recover."

He glances through John's folder once, then closes it and lays it back on the blotter in front of Merit.

Dr. Merit raises an eyebrow, realizes both brothers are now looking at him.

"The thought had occurred to all of us, frankly," he says quietly. "Here is what we know about the other victims: the first young man had just attended a rather large party where alcohol and yes, drugs, flowed like water. Traces of not only methadone but copious amounts of alcohol were found in his blood stream, along with the rather large dose of the drug in question."

"The second young man, also at uni, had been heavily drinking beforehand and this had gone on for several hours. And he was a known user of virtually every type of recreational drug he could get his hands on. Evidence of alcohol and other drugs, including cocaine, were found in his bloodstream, along with the designer drug that Doctor Watson was deliberately exposed to. For want of a better name, my colleagues and I have been referring to it simply as MF, after Marcus Franks' initials."

Sherlock flinches, then stares at Merit unblinking.

If Merit notices, he ignores it. "We have Ms. Hansen's recorded testimony that at the direction of James Moriarty, Doctor Watson was given what she refers to as micro injections of the drug, at least two injections over the course of every twenty-four period. Doctor Watson had no alcohol in his bloodstream and of course, no other drugs or substances that this particular drug would react with – and each injection was an extremely small percentage of what was administered to the other three victims."

Dr. Merit glances at the brothers. "According to her testimony, which has been invaluable by the way, this was done deliberately so as to record Doctor Watson's reactions to the drug – and to provide such recordings to potential buyers of – MF. They were not going to risk killing the man if they could help it. It also helps us greatly that Ms. Hansen was able to tell us where a supply of the drug was kept and the police were able to recover this and provide us with samples for research."

Merit glances from brother to brother.

"I'm not certain how much you know about the statistics of addiction – but a user can become "addicted" for want of a better term to heroin after one dose; cocaine after just a few; meth, of course, is more or less deadly to anyone who uses it and they simply want more and more until –" he breaks off and stares at Sherlock, then Mycroft.

"Doctor Watson was deliberately injected nine times over the course of a few days. It would have been ten if Ms. Hansen had not interfered when she did. I have not had the opportunity – yet – to talk with John Watson about what he experienced during those times and I'm not certain that anyone should talk to him about it, not at this time. Eventually, of course, his recollections, notes, anything he can give us, will be invaluable. Right now, I don't care to risk his mental health over this. We do have Lori Hansen's notes, which is a good thing as Dr. Marcus Franks, the researcher apparently responsible for the creation of this heinous drug has disappeared, and no one seems to know where he is."

There is dead silence. If Mycroft's eyes are steel, Sherlock's are downright frost.

William Merit clears his throat and taps John's file folder with one finger.

"Eventually, and I fervently hope this is the case with John Watson, the effects of the drug will fade. But it will take time and right now, I'm afraid we are creating something of a secondary problem."

Mycroft stirs, sighs. "You are, of course, referring to the fact that the opioids you are given John for pain are causing their own set of problems, if they continue."

Merit nods. "Of course. We are basically slowly substituting one addiction for another, one that we can more or less control. And eventually, we will be able to treat the second addiction. So if you mean to go ahead and have John Watson transferred from St. Anne's, I hope to God it's to a facility that has a trained psychological consultant on the staff, among other, more obvious experts."

He looks at John's file folder again.

"There's one thing everyone seems to have overlooked here." He closes John's file and places it squarely in front of him on the blotter.

"Doctor Watson is a grown adult, a trained medical doctor, a damned good one too, I might add – he is known to two of my colleagues here at St. Anne's - and he has to be aware of what is happening to him. The decision as to whether or not he is transferred to another medical facility has to be his. He is awake, aware, in his right mind – except during an attack – and is certainly able to make these types of decisions for himself. The only reason I have not spoken to him concerning his condition, and probable long term effects of his mistreatment, since he woke up, is at your specific request, Mycroft." Here Dr. Merit addresses the elder Holmes brother directly.

But it is Sherlock who responds, his voice cool, matter of fact. "You are 100% correct. John can make those decisions for himself, but I need to add one thing."

Merit raises an eyebrow, patiently waits for Sherlock to continue.

"So far, John has not asked a single question about his current condition. Not one."

OooOooO

"They're moving you to the cardio intensive care unit later today, John." Sherlock does not look John in the face while he tells him this. Instead, he stares out of the window, his hands in the pockets of his trousers.

"Dr. Merit feels you will receive better – and more immediate – care there than you are receiving now."

There is silence for a moment. Sherlock waits for John to talk to him, to say anything at all.

John's voice, when it comes, is quiet, resigned, the hoarse tones slowly disappearing. Sherlock thinks John sounds more and more like his normal self.

He watches Sherlock as the detective begins to pace slowly around John's hospital room.

"Sherlock – what part of ' ** _Doctor_** Watson' did you not understand?" John says tiredly.

Sherlock stops pacing and simply stands there, stares at the quiet figure in the hospital bed. His heart rate has increased. He consciously slows his breathing down in order to help dispel the small feeling of vertigo the rapid beat creates.

Something funny is happening to his insides. He looks at John Watson and he is reminded briefly of the feeling of unreality he experienced in John's surgery that day - the day John was taken.

As if both of them stand on opposite sides of a river, slowly moving away from each other. And there's not a damn thing that either one of them can do about it.

The silence stretches out. John simply watches Sherlock. And waits.

"When were you going to say something?" he asks wearily.

Sherlock flinches. The detective's eyes are so haunted, John barely recognizes them anymore.

"John, I –"

"No, Sherlock, No. This is not how we are going to do this." John waves a hand at the bed, the hospital room, everything.

"Don't you realize I knew – I know – exactly what is happening to me?"

John leans back against the pillows and briefly shuts his eyes. He re-opens them to stare ahead at nothing, his left hand, restless, picks at the edge of a sheet. He frowns at his hand, then turns his head to look back at Sherlock.

"You can't protect me from the truth, Sherlock. You can't. And what's more, I don't want you to. We have to discuss this, yes, I recognize that. And I've been putting it off, hoping to be stronger. Frankly, I've just been too damned tired to care, about this, about anything - except you."

Sherlock's eyes widen at John's declaration.

John looks at him, gently amused now. "Does that surprise you, you idiot? I can't stop what is happening to me, Sherlock. But it doesn't stop me from being concerned about the obvious effect it's having on you. I – I haven't been able to look at you this past day, let alone talk with you over what I said and probably did –" John breaks off abruptly, in too much emotional pain to continue speaking.

He stares at the tall man, and waits for him to say something, anything.

Sherlock comes to stand by John, his arms down by his side, as if he doesn't – quite – know what to do with them. He wants desperately to hold John's hand but doesn't know what the doctor wants – or needs - at this moment. Whatever it is, Sherlock is prepared to provide it.

John stares up at his partner, a world-weary expression on his face. He pats the bed beside him. Sherlock eagerly pulls up his chair, sits, begins to temple his fingers under his skin, his default Sherlock position.

John shakes his head slowly, reaches out and takes Sherlock's hand in his. He intertwines their fingers. Both men look at their combined hands. Neither one of them can speak for a moment.

Finally, John looks up from his contemplation of Sherlock's long, elegant fingers wrapped around his shorter, sturdier ones.

"Sherlock, I – I don't remember exactly what I did but I do remember that I said some things yesterday that –"

Sherlock shakes his head quickly. "No, John. No. Do not apologize. Not for that. Never for that."

He grips John's hand more tightly and continues to stare at their hands.

Finally, he looks up to encounter the saddest expression he's ever seen on John Watson's face.

He takes a breath, lets it out.

"John, I want – no, damn it, that's not right **. _I need_ –** John, I need to tell you something. I need to tell you a lot of 'somethings' in fact." Sherlock looks at John and tries to grin. He's not certain he succeeds.

"John – that day, the day you were taken –"

"You mean the day I made just about every error in judgment an ex-Soldier can make when it comes to dealing with arch enemies and criminal master minds?" the doctor asks dryly.

Sherlock looks at him thoughtfully. And he realizes, with aching clarity, that John is going to make this easy for him.

As he stares into John's storm-tossed eyes, so obviously filled with pain - and something else – he cannot define, Sherlock suddenly wonders what the hell he has been waiting for this entire time, these past months. An engraved invitation from the Queen? The perfect day? The right time? The exact moment when all the cosmic forces in the universe align and a fucking light bulb goes off over his head?

Or maybe it was something simpler all this time. Maybe, just maybe, he was afraid of John's response. And he knows he could not bear to be told he wasn't good enough. _Which would be the_ _truth,_ he thinks.

Not for the first time, he wonders what he would be doing now if John had died back there on the highway – died..DIED. _John did die,_ Sherlock thinks, startled _. John Watson died in his arms_ _and was clinically dead for three and one-half minutes._ The longest three minutes in Sherlock's existence.

" _Fix your family_ ," Mycroft said weeks ago. _Well, by God he intends to._

All of this takes exactly seven seconds. Sherlock looks into John's steady gaze – and his heart turns over in his chest.

He leans toward John and clasps both hands around John's sturdy hand.

"John, I planned on telling you something at dinner that night … planned on setting right a lot of things that I let go wrong, somehow. I was ready that day, so ready, and then you were gone and we didn't know where that bastard had taken you and I didn't even know if you were alive. God John! I thought I was going to go mad … and that god damned circle of blood on the clinic floor –"

John flinches at this information, frowns. "Sherlock, I don't remember a whole lot –"

The detective shakes his head. "No. John, No. I told you, it's all right. It doesn't matter, now, what you do or don't remember."

"Matters to me," says John quietly. He stares at the shaggy dark head in front of him and realizes he has been holding his breath. He lets it out slowly.

"Yes, of course it matters to you – I –" Sherlock looks straight at John and then he grins that blinding, cracked grin that gives Sally Donovan pause. John's eyes widen – and he grins right back.

The door opens and a nurse comes in to take John's vitals.

"Oh bloody hell," murmurs the detective. He lets John's hands go, stands abruptly and paces around the hospital room, his fists shoved in his pockets. John just patiently waits and watches him.

"Right, fever's still down, that's good." She finishes with John, with all of it, says, "Good afternoon, Gentlemen," and leaves, pulling the door to behind her.

Sherlock glances at the door, then at John. Determinedly, he sits back down, snags John's hands with both of his and stares into his Army doctor's eyes. John stares back.

"John, I want, no I **_need_** – What the -"

There's a tap on the door and a second nurse comes in with John's medications. Oblivious to the two stares, one icy and one resigned, she logs into her portable work station, asks John his name and birthdate, and proceeds to dispense his afternoon meds. John swallows them obediently, thanks her, she nods at both of them and leaves.

Sherlock rises from his chair, crosses to close the door behind her, comes back to sit by John's bedside.

He stares into John's dark eyes. He opens his mouth to speak.

A discordant beeping noise erupts from one of the stanchions behind John. One of the bags of fluid has run out. The beep continues until -

"Oh, GOOD GOD!" Sherlock swears; his eyes narrow as the same nurse comes in to change out the empty bag. She smiles pleasantly at both men, makes the change, straightens the tubing, checks the IV connection in the back of John's hand – and goes out again, pulling the door to behind her.

Both men look after her and then turn to stare at each other, Sherlock more or less desperate and John just puzzled.

Sherlock clears his throat, takes John's hands in his. "John, I need – CHRIST ON A CRACKER!"

John's eyes widen, and wonders briefly where the hell Sherlock learned _that_ one. He and Sherlock are definitely going to have to have a talk soon.

Another nurse stands in the doorway, her hands full of clean bandages. Both men stare at her, one gaze calm, one a bit murderous. Her eyes widen, "I think this can wait for a few more minutes," she says softly. And she backs out the way she came in, closing the door softly behind her.

Sherlock looks back from the door to John Watson's face. He takes a deep breath. Briefly closes, then opens his eyes.

" **John, there is a time and place for everything and this is neither the time nor the place but frankly, I don't give a damn."**

He bends and brushes his lips across their combined fingers. Then looks up into John's gaze, startlingly blue today.

"John Hamish Watson – I love you. I have always loved you. I think I fell in love with you five minutes after we met there in Bart's – "

"Waited that long, huh?" interrupts the doctor, in an amused tone. John's heart threatens to beat out of his chest.

"Don't interrupt, John, damn it." Sherlock laces their fingers more tightly together, leans slightly toward the man he loves.

"John Watson, I swear to God if I don't get to tell you this, my brain is going to burst."

"Go on then, you're doing fine so far," the doctor murmurs.

"I said, don't interrupt. Where was – oh yes. I FUCKING LOVE YOU, JOHN WATSON, and I swear to GOD if you think this is because you are sitting here in this bloody bed or that it's because you were shot and kidnapped or that this has anything to do with your current condition –"

"What condition would that be, gentlemen? Is Doctor Watson pregnant?"

"Mycroft, if you don't leave this room now, this very instant, I am going to commit cold-blooded homicide!"

Both men look up at the tall figure who stands in the doorway. Sherlock with blood in his eye and John with a long-suffering but amused expression on his tired face.

"Actually, that would make it fratricide. I'll just go outside and leave you to it then. Come get me when this touching declaration is over, dear brother, all right?"

Mycroft shuts the door quietly behind him.

Sherlock looks back at John – who is frankly laughing at him, his heart suddenly light.

Sherlock looks dismayed, as if John has not taken his declaration seriously.

John shakes his head, grins from ear to ear. "No," he says hurriedly, 'No, not laughing at you, Love, just at us – at life in general, at all of this." He waves one hand in the air, then gives it back to Sherlock, who pulls it into his grip.

Sherlock looks startled at the 'Love' word coming from John's lips. Then he just looks delighted.

John leans forward and brushes his dry lips over Sherlock's lush ones. He winces at the sudden tightening of the bandaging around his ribs. John leans back, his expression amused.

"No, Sherlock, I don't think it's because of any of those things and yes, I think you should tell me and keep on telling me so that wonderful, beautiful brain of yours does not burst any time soon."

He disengages his hand and brushes his fingers through Sherlock's' dark curls.

The detective just stares at the doctor with amazement in his eyes.

"Go on, then, get it over with. Because I have some things to say, too, and that nurse – and your brother – are not going to wait all day."

Sherlock grins into John's eyes, grabs John's errant hand and pulls it back into his two clasped hands.

"John, I love you. I want you in my life forever, if you'll have me, and once we get over this stupid, asinine problem we are currently experiencing, I want you to be my partner – damn it, you already are that, ALL of that, but they require some sort of sodding paper so – god damn it, John, Marry Me!"

There is a short intake of breath and neither man can tell who it comes from.

"Sherlock – I –"

"No, John, No. Just NO." Sherlock waves one languid hand in the air. "That's not how we're going to do this. We are partners, damn it, a couple, and we're going to fight this bloody thing as a couple and you have my permission to call me a heartless bastard a dozen times a day if it helps you get through this and it is entirely deserved, by the way, I have been, frequently, a heartless bastard, and at times, far, far worse than that, and I don't want you to ever EVER leave me and if you ever did –"

John shakes his head. He can't stop grinning. "Sherlock, I told you before. I'm not going anywhere."

Sherlock lets out a deep breath he doesn't realize he is holding.

"All right then. Good. That's – that's good." He stammers, his words come to a halt.

He leans over John Watson and kisses him on the lips, murmurs into his mouth, "Now if you don't mind, I have to go out into the waiting room and fucking kill Mycroft."

John whispers right back. "I'll be here, waiting. And when you return, we're going to have to do something about that cursing problem of yours which has reached frankly alarming proportions. "

He lets himself grin against Sherlock's lips.

Both men pull back slightly and look at each other, eyes full of wonder.

John suddenly leans toward Sherlock and tightens his grip on Sherlock's fingers before the taller man can leave him.

"Sherlock – I don't know how this is going to play out. I swear to God I don't. And it seems to me that the brunt of it will be on you, not me. But –" the doctor clears his throat. "YES. Yes, Sherlock, to what you just said - YES to all of it –" he waves a hand at the door. "Yes, to Mycroft being my official brother in law, damn his eyes, and Yes to Mummy, Yes to life with the most unsociopathic person I've ever met in my life – Yes to chasing after you down ruddy side streets and to trying to get you to eat more than once a week and YES to midnight violin sessions and heads in the fridge, and experiments all over the bloody flat, and , I think Yes, to occasionally getting myself kidnapped, although I'd much rather avoid that bit and just fucking YES to it all!"

He stares into Sherlock's crystalline eyes. " _Grayish-blue today,_ _rare,"_ he notes. " _A good omen_."

"And most of all, Yes to YOU, you bloody idiot."

From outside their room, a small cheer goes up from the nurse's station, clearly audible. Both men look at each other, their eyes wide with horror, and then they slowly direct their gazes to the nurse call button on the inside of the bed railing – the same railing that John has leaned against in his eagerness to grab Sherlock's hand.

John buries his face in his hands. 'Oh, fucking GOD!" he swears.

Sherlock just smirks. "I have witnesses, John. Lots and lots of sodding witnesses!"

OooOooO

"Good news, John. There's been a massive pile-up on the M4. Lots of injuries."

John Watson opens his eyes slowly, in horror, and just as slowly raises his head to stare at his partner, who has rushed into his hospital room to give him this alarming news.

"Sherlock, I think we need to have another talk about what constitutes acceptable social –"

"No, NO. John. I didn't mean it that way. Of course, I didn't." Sherlock comes in to sit down by John's side, reaches for his hand. "What I meant was, St. Anne's is closest and they've brought the victims here. They're going to need all the beds in the cardio ward they can get, at least for a couple of days until it all gets sorted."

John does the maths. "So, I'm not being transferred today then," he says thoughtfully. He nods. "Good. I can go back to sleep." He shuts his eyes.

Sherlock just beams at him. He has plans for a certain Army doctor. Oh my fucking god, yes, does he have plans.

OooOooO

"Sherlock, I need to speak with Dr. Merit alone for a few minutes." John looks into Sherlock's eyes, which widen, then narrow.

'John, anything you have to say to Merit, can be said in front of —"

"Sherlock," the doctor's tone brooks no argument. "This is – this is not about my 'condition,' as you refer to it. It's something else entirely."

John looks stonily at the detective, who stares just as stonily back.

"John, we discussed this. I have to be in the know about all of your treatment and if you—"

"Bloody hell, Sherlock! There are things a man needs to ask his doctor and times to ask them and this is one of those things and _by God_ this is the mother loving time."

John shoves one hand through his dark blonde spikes, which results in a slightly wild look.

He is becoming agitated and Sherlock immediately caves.

"John, it's all right. I'll leave while you discuss whatever it is." He goes out of the room, stops, turns and looks back. "Is – is everything – are ** _we_** okay?"

John's tone is resigned to the extreme – and not a little embarrassed.

"Yes, Sherlock, I promise you. **We** are okay. **We** are just fine. It's just something I have to know. And I have to know it right now. Before we go – any further."

He adds dryly, "So just go out and have a smoke, or two, which you will be giving up shortly, by the way, - again - and leave us alone for about twenty minutes, okay?"

Sherlock groans. He knew he hadn't fooled his partner about the cigarettes. He nods, passes Dr. Merit, who stands right outside the door, and leaves, his mind racing. What could John possibly need to discuss that he – Sherlock – could not be there for?

When it comes to him later, he doesn't know whether to laugh or curse. And immediately he realizes he needs to know the answer too. He fishes in his coat pocket for a pack of cigarettes.

Never mind. He'll get the details out of John later. Much later. That night.

" _And,"_ thinks Sherlock as he snaps a lighter at his first cigarette of the day, inhales the blessed smoke, " _if the answer is Yes, we are fine, and if the answer is No, we are still fine because there are ways around anything, even this."_

And he leans his head back to stare a sky already ripe with the promise of more snow. And smirks.

OooOooO

"Doctor Watson –" Merit begins. He sits in the small folding chair by John's bed.

"John, please," says the doctor.

"William," replies Merit. They both nod at each other. Merit clears his throat. "Well, what do you need to know?"

John tells him.

OooOooO

"Mummy is in full concurrence, by the way," says Mycroft. He and Sherlock sit in the waiting area while John speaks with Dr. Merit in his hospital room.

Sherlock is fidgety. He keeps crossing and uncrossing his long legs, stares around the waiting area. No one else is in there so he has nothing to occupy his brain – just what is going on in John's hospital room.

He replies to Mycroft with a quiet "Hmmmm."

The elder Holmes brother sighs, adjusts the crease in his trousers and leans back again in the frankly horrid chair. Honestly, how can anyone actually relax and wait for long in these things. It occurs to Mycroft, now that the Holmes more or less own the new wing, that new, more comfortable seating arrangements might be called for.

He is aware that Sherlock barely hears what he is talking about and that's fine. He'll have something to hold over his younger brother later, when it's needed.

"Yes, she totally agreed that John – and you, of course, dear brother – should be brought to the estate immediately, as quickly as it can be arranged. And she'll take care of the necessary arrangements to have the proper medical personnel on hand. You and John can have your old wing."

Mycroft looks at his brother's profile. Sherlock continues to look down the hall, toward John's room, doubtless waiting for Merit to emerge, so he can get back to John.

Mycroft sighs. "On the other hand, I feel that there is a great deal to be said for the Delallo clinic in Italy - or perhaps the Regala, in Switzerland –"

"Mycroft, what in the bloody hell are you talking about," demands Sherlock. He yanks his gaze from the hallway, from John's door, and tries to put his attention on his insufferable brother.

"I am talking about John Watson, dear brother, and his immediate and long-term care."

Mycroft looks at Sherlock and raises one eyebrow in speculation. "Or should I say I am talking about John Watson Holmes' immediate and long-term care."

"Yes, I thought you would not waste much time in bringing that up," says Sherlock.

He still does not turn his head to look at Mycroft _. What in bloody hell can John and Merit have to possibly talk about for this length of time?_

"Sherlock, I'm pleased you finally had a talk with John. I'm assuming it went well?"

"Yes, Mycroft, if you must know – " Sherlock breaks off and finally tilts his head sideways at his older brother. John's quiet admonishment to 'play nice' pops into his head. He sighs.

"Yes, it went very well, thank you. John agreed – he did not reject me."

"Should I inform Mummy of the impending happy nuptials – or have you and the good doctor even arrived at any definite plans yet?"

"Honest to God, Mycroft, I don't know how your people haven't drawn lots to see who gets to murder you before this. Keep your long nose out of my – our business – mine and John's."

Sherlock stretches his long legs out in front of him and stares at his shoes.

"When we have definite plans, you—and Mummy – will be the first to know. Until then—"

"Fine." Mycroft stands, glances around the room one more time. He feels a change of paint and basic décor is called for, as well. He will talk to Anthea about this. Or perhaps this is more Mummy's area.

He picks up his overcoat and drapes it over his left arm, takes his umbrella from where it lays against an empty chair. Mycroft Holmes looks down at the ebony curls on his brother's brooding head. Sherlock looks up.

He and Sherlock stare at each other for a moment and by the mutual telepathy the Holmes brothers seem to possess, Mycroft sees – and hears – much more than Sherlock has actually verbalized. He raises one eyebrow.

"Ah." Mycroft nods appreciatively.

"I see—" he says slowly. He turns to gaze down the hallway toward John's door.

"Yes, I can see how his drug 'problem' for want of a better word, and particularly the long-term use of opioid pain medications might create the need for a consultation between John and William."

Mycroft turns his head back to meet Sherlock's eyes. He decides to take pity on his brother for once.

"Never mind, Sherlock, I believe these types of problems only occur after the medications in question have been in use for quite some time. That is most definitely not the case with John."

He turns to leave, twirls his umbrella. Throws the last comment over his shoulder.

"I am sure your wedding night – er celebrations – will not be overtly affected."

He walks down the hall toward the elevator.

"Oh bloody Hell !" shouts Sherlock _. Is there anyone in this plebian hospital who doesn't' know his and John's personal business?_

OooOooO

Later that evening,

"Sherlock, what is all that?" John asks. It is much later that evening and the two of them are – finally – alone, more or less, John thinks. They have about three hours before someone comes into take blood again and check his vitals.

He watches as the detective opens a small bag and begins to remove items and place them on the table next to John.

First item: a small red candle. John raises an eyebrow.

"Sherlock, surely you know there is oxygen in use in here and you cannot possibly light that thing."

"Yes, John, I know," comes his partner's patient reply. He rummages in the bag and brings out another item – items, rather.

Two wine glasses.

Next he turns to the second bag he has with him and removes one bottle of wine, places it next to the glasses.

John's eyes widen.

"Sherlock, I can't drink alcohol, not with all of the medications I'm on," he protests.

"Yes, John, I know," says Sherlock.

Third item: a small tiny bud vase, sans bud. Sherlock glances around, spies the flowers on the window sill still sitting in the water carafe that Lori Hansen used as a flower vase. He crosses to the window, selects one bright red flower, snaps it off halfway down the stem and comes back to John's other side. He places the stem in the tiny vase and pours a little water in it from John's water glass.

The doctor watches all of these proceedings with a quiet amusement. Truth be known, he is rather touched by Sherlock's obvious attempts at romance.

Sherlock removes one or two smaller items from the bag but drops them in the pocket of his trousers before John can see what they are. The detective crumples up the two bags, tosses them in the bin in the small bathroom. While there, he shuts the door, inspects his appearance, and runs a hand through his curls. Then he brushes his teeth and finally, smiles at his reflection. _Good enough_ , he hopes.

He goes back out to John, leaving the light on and the door just slightly ajar.

"Finished?" John says dryly.

Sherlock shakes his head. "Not yet," he murmurs. He goes out into the hallway, fixes his gaze sternly and deliberately on the group of nurses who stand there, comparing charts, and very deliberately, as he holds their gaze, he withdraws into John's room, backwards, and shuts the door as tightly as it will go.

The obvious click speaks volumes.

The nurses look at each other – and smile.

Sherlock clicks off the overhead lights in John's room, while the doctor watches his actions with increasing amusement. And, yes, he must admit, his pulse begins to race.

He goes to the head of John's bed, reaches over John and clicks off the more subdued light behind John's bed. He glances at the tiny Christmas tree in the window, which now supplies the only light in the room, other than the small amount which comes from under the door of the loo. And tiny circles of yellow light that make their way into their room from the streets below.

Finally, he nods to himself, bends over to kiss John on the lips, and pulls up his chair to sit by John's side.

"Finished now?" says John.

"Not by a long shot, John," says Sherlock Holmes.

And he proceeds to go back to kissing John Watson.

Everywhere. Just - Everywhere.

The doctor just laughs.

OooOooO

"Sherlock, this bed isn't big enough to hold both of us."

"Don't be ridiculous, John, of course it is."

Sherlock studies the tubes leading into John's IV. Over the past few days, John has graduated from a total of five bags of various fluids, antibiotics, drips and what have you to two bags total. Sherlock glances at the tubes, at the IV in the back of John's hands, both of them in the same hand now, the left one, and finally studies the hospital bed, including the railings - if he leaves one up and one down - yes. He nods. Perfectly workable.

Done kissing John, for the time being anyway, he stands up, crosses around John to the doctor's right side and shrugs out of his suit jacket. It drops to the floor in one graceful slide. Sherlock steps over several hundred quid of gorgeous fabric and toes out of his shoes. Finally he reaches down and removes his socks, unzips his trousers. Lets those fall to the floor, first retrieving a few small items from his pockets, which he bends over and tucks under the edge of one of John's pillows.

Lastly, he unbuttons his cuffs and his tight shirt, the purple one that under normal circumstances drives the good doctor mad with lust, but leaves the shirt to hang on his pale torso.

John raises an eyebrow. Sherlock has never been a great believer in underwear. Too encumbering.

He hasn't changed his tune in the two weeks John has been in the hospital.

Sherlock snaps down the railing on the side of John's bed and simultaneously silences the bed alarm with two well-placed fingers.

John's breath starts to come in small gasps.

Bending over his Army doctor, Sherlock murmurs, "Budge over, John."

John Watson scoots to his left, as far as possible until his left hip is pressed up against the left side bed rail.

Yes, breathing is definitely becoming an issue at this point.

Sherlock lifts John's blankets and sheet in one smooth motion, slips in next to John and lies up against John's pillows, tilting a little toward his left side. Finally, he pulls John gently up against him, fitting his left hip next to and slightly under the doctor's right hip area.

He puts his left arm around John and pulls the doctor, gently, so gently, up against his chest. The shirt has fallen open and John's head now rests directly against Sherlock's marble skin. He shuts his eyes.

 _If this works – oh GOD if this works,_ John will be so grateful. He has been apprehensive since he spoke with Merit that afternoon.

"All right, John?"

John wonders if he is having arrhythmia. All he can do is nod.

John's dark blond head rests back against Sherlock's left shoulder, the detective's left hand around his upper back, hugging him to his chest. And his right hand – his right hand -

"Sherlock, I had a talk with Dr. Merit today."

Sherlock nuzzles his lips into John's silky hair, right at the crown. His right hand begins to caress John's right hip over the boxers John changed into earlier. His hand moves up and down the cotton fabric, pausing each time at the elastic waistband, then continues downward over the top of the cotton to stroke against John's bare skin just below the hem of the pants.

Sherlock moves his right hand downward until it comes to the hem of the shorts, teases the bare skin there a moment, then works its way back up again. He repeats the movement. Over and over again. Sherlock's long legs line up against John's torso; he carefully avoids any contact with the line of bandaging around John's thigh.

"Yes, John?" says Sherlock breathily. He continues to nuzzle John's hair, to isolate and taste individual strands, dragging them between his lips and tongue, then - letting them go. His left hand rubs gently, so gently over the scar tissue barely evident through John's cotton tee shirt. John's ribs are bandaged and Sherlock moves his hand and fingers gently around John's chest, above and below the bandages, being extremely careful with John's rib area, after first gently sliding John's portable heart monitor to the right side of his chest. He gently feels around John's chest area and shoulders, counts the small sticky snaps that the heart wires are connected to, nods. Their locations are now memorized and he very carefully avoids them during his - er - ministrations to John Watson.

"You spoke to Dr. Merit. And?"

John's breath begins to come in sharp little gasps. "I – I had to ask him about the effects of the pain meds he has me on, particularly those that they give me during –" he breaks off for a moment as Sherlock's right hand stops at the waistband of his boxers again. This time, the detective's warm fingers insinuate themselves between the band and John's hip. The detective splays his fingers against John's cool skin, until they impart some of their warmth to the doctor. Then they move on – downward.

"Yes, John? The meds they give you during what exactly?" Sherlock murmurs into John's hair.

He shuts his eyes and moves his lush lips slowly down the right side of John's head to where they nuzzle John's right ear. He wishes it were the left ear – but you can't have everything, not in a sodding hospital bed.

John shuts his eyes, momentarily dizzy, then opens them again. "The meds they give me during these damn attacks – I asked him what effect, if any, they might have on my ability to – er –"

"Yes, John?" Sherlock's tongue traces the outline of John's right ear, slowly laving the outer shell, then dips into the tiny cleft under the inner shell. He blows on John's ear, just where it is damp from his tongue, then his teeth nibble at the delicate ear area. Then he goes back to licking John's ear again, over and down and around and in … and again blows against John's skin.

John makes a tiny sound, tries to keep his eyes open, but they seem to be losing focus.

His eyes close and he bends his head to the left, to allow Sherlock's tongue better access to his ear and the side of his head and his neck.

His breathing has sped up a little, at the same time he begins to relax under Sherlock's attentions. His right hand has been clenched in the sheets. Now he relaxes his fingers – and Sherlock's right hand immediately withdraws from John's bare hip, comes out from under the boxers to find his hand and intertwine their fingers. Sherlock begins to tighten, then loosen his hand, to gently pull and tug along each of John's fingers, as if he is working all the knots and kinks out of the tired skin.

His clever hands gently clasp, then pull the tendons of John's fingers, massage the back of his hand, work their way up and down each knuckle. He finally clasps John's hand in his tightly, to impart his body heat to the doctor's faithful hand, then he starts all over again.

Finally, when John's right hand is more or less limp, he gently places John's hand along his side and he moves his right palm back under John's boxers, to rub up and down his hip area.

At the same time, Sherlock's left hand leaves the scar tissue and wanders down to claim John's left hand. He begins to afford it the same attentions as his right hand. Tugging the fingers gently, working the skin around the knuckles, kneading, kneading the skin, stretching out John's fingers until neither of them can feel the tremor in John's left hand. Then he releases John's hand and returns his attentions to John's aching shoulder, with its area of ragged scar tissue.

Sherlock's eyes' are shut, the better to feel John, to sense John, to re-learn John, since he can't see his eyes anyway, but he momentarily frowns when his fingers encounter the doctor's hip bone – which now juts out from his recent weight loss.

Sherlock gently tugs down on John's boxer shorts, then murmurs to John. John obediently uses his left hand to also tug and the shorts are finally pulled down until they rest, more or less, against bandaging around John's thigh. Sherlock leaves them there as a reminder of John's wound and stitches and brings his hand back up to stroke along John's bare hip.

John shuts his own eyes and concentrates on the feel of Sherlock's right hand as it grips, then releases his hip, on the warmth and wetness of Sherlock's tongue as it makes it way around his ear, on the brush of Sherlock's nails as his left hand drags itself over and around the scar, up to his neck and shoulder, then back down again.

John sighs and relaxes back in Sherlock's arms, finally – **_oh god finally_** \- lets the detective take the weight of his upper body against his chest. Sherlock smiles against John's ear and tightens his grip on the doctor with his left hand.

His hand slowly strokes over the scar under John's tee shirt, then up to the very front of John's shoulder, where the warm fingers rub gently against John's skin, just under his chin, teasing their way under the neckline of John's tee shirt, then back down and across to the scar. His fingers slowly being to knead, then release the scar tissue.

John gasps, and his eyes fly open.

"All right, John?" asks Sherlock against his ear.

John whispers, "Yes. It's – yes…" his voice trails off. His eyes close of their own accord and he gives himself up to Sherlock's attentions.

_Just – YES to everything._

Sherlock whispers into his ear, all the while continuing his attentions to the scar, to Johns' left hip and the skin of his upper leg.

"You were saying something about the possible effects of the medications they have you on?"

"Hmm?" John's entire body, more or less, goes limp under Sherlock's warm hands.

_Well, not his entire body. Not entirely. Oh, hell NO. And .._

Slowly, slowly as Sherlock's right hand moves from John's hip to his groin, and begins to twine his fingers in the soft short hairs he finds there, John realizes that the – problem – he was so worried about has begun to stir and to awaken and to –

 _Oh, Hello there,_ thinks John.

As Sherlock continues to touch and stroke and tease…

" _YES. YES. YES. Just fucking YES,"_ thinks John.

"God," groans John. Sherlock freezes momentarily.

"John?" The detective's warm breath huffs into John's right ear.

"No. No, it's fine. It's – better than fine, Sherlock," John murmurs. "I just – Jesus, fucking God!"

Sherlock chuckles. "No need to pray, John. Just – shut your eyes. And Feel."

The detective buries his nose in John's neck area. His teeth nibble and pull at John's skin, now slightly sweaty. He licks John's skin – which elicits another groan from the good doctor. John's skin tastes of salt. He is used to John tasting of chamomile tea, of wool, often rain, and always a musky scent that is all John Watson. And - something that is missing now.

Sherlock shuts his eyes and continues to move the fingers of his right hand down John's growing cock.

The doctor groans again, softly, and Sherlock laughs gently against his neck.

"John? You were saying?"

His left hand makes lazy circles around the scar, feeling its way through the thin cotton fabric, finally takes the plunge under the neckline to find and circle John's left nipple, just at the very top of the rib bandages, tugging the fabric slightly along with it.

"I said I - What?"

John tilts his head back to the right now, to allow Sherlock's left hand access to his neck and as far down as he can plunge his hand under the fabric of the tee shirt. Which turns out to be very far indeed.

Sherlock's hand circles, then gently tugs a nipple, teases one finger gently, gently under the bandages with their soft pads to feel John's soft chest hair. Finally, Sherlock removes his left hand – which makes John groan a little – "patience," the detective whispers into his hairline, then he licks his fingertips, replaces them under John's tee, and begins to slowly tease one nipple until John groans out loud with the pleasure of it.

His eyes are shut tight as are Sherlock's, both of them breathing heavily in the dark of the room.

Sherlock wraps the long fingers of his right hand around John's growing cock now and gently begins to stroke.

"Oh, God, Sherlock," John whispers. His head lolls on Sherlock's chest and his chest muscles loosen as he leans even more into the detective's warm embrace.

Sherlock smiles against the skin of John's neck. He shuts his eyes again and while his left hand plays around John's chest and nipples, beginning at the scar, then working its way downward, then back up, his right hand wraps around John's cock, and John totally forgets what Dr. Merit said to him hours earlier that afternoon, about possible vascular problems arising from the – Arising from ...

Arising.

"Oh Shit," whispers John. "Don't stop, just don't – stop,"

 _Don't make me beg, Sherlock,_ John thinks _. Please just –"_

"Not going anywhere, John," Sherlock huffs against John's neck. He bends his head slightly and his tongue goes back to laving John's right ear and his clever fingers tighten along the length of John's cock.

His thumb presses along the sensitive top, finds the few drops there, and gently spreads them around the head, dipping under, then back up to rub up and down and around the glans.

John groans, louder this time. He can't help himself.

"Touch yourself, John" murmurs Sherlock.

"Hmm…." John's head lolls forward. He tries to concentrate on the sound of Sherlock's voice in his ear but it's damned difficult to concentrate on anything but what is happening down south…

"Wrap your hand around your cock, John," murmurs Sherlock.

John obeys, bends his right leg gently, which more or less dislodges the boxers from his right leg and Sherlock immediately accommodates his movement by shifting his own long legs. He turns more on his left side, brings his right leg up over his own left leg, to allow John better access.

John grips himself and Sherlock's long fingers immediately go to the side of the pillow, tug out the small tube of lube they find there. One-handed, he flips open the cap, warms the tube in his closed hand for a moment, then squeezes it around John's fingers and cock. Finally, he drops the tube and grips John's fingers with his own. Together, they stroke up and down.

"John Watson, I love you," Sherlock whispers against the back of John's hair. His lips whisper the words against John's neck as if he tries to embed them into the doctor's skin by breath alone.

His lips move up to John's right ear as they both continue to stroke along the length of John's cock.

"John Watson, I love you," Sherlock murmurs into the doctor's ear. He licks along the ear again, then gently blows against the outer shell.

John shivers. Concentrates on the feeling of **_now_** and ** _need_ ** and **_ohmyfuckinggod_ ** that comes from the knowledge of what Sherlock's clever hand is doing.

Sherlock bends his head toward John's shoulder and kisses and licks and growls against the skin along the top of his collar bone.

"John Watson, I love you," he says huskily, his own erection a growing problem that nudges John's right hip and thigh as their hands pick up speed and move together in unison along John's shaft.

John laughs – or tries to.

Sherlock and John's hands begin to move faster as the engorged blood heats and expands along the entire length of John's cock. He tilts his head back against Sherlock's chest and Sherlock immediately dips his head and nose and mouth into John's hair.

He whispers into the dark blonde, silky mass, "John Watson, I love you."

His left hand rubs up and across John's chest, and sensitive nipple area, avoiding the bandages, then back up to knead the scar tissue, then back down to gently, gently, dip below the soft padding to rub against John's chest hairs.

John groans and feels his universe fray.

"Sherlock – "

Sherlock's eyes are shut. He buries his face in John's hair and inhales John – the scent of his shampoo, the scent of his skin, the musky tangy smell that is John – salt and something he can never quite identify and yes, there is the hospital smell and sick smell that is not John, and Sherlock ignores those smells and concentrates on the scent of hot copper – which is the scent of John's blood racing under the skin of his neck.

" _Gun oil,"_ he thinks, " _John usually smells of gun oil."_ He finds he misses that smell.

"Oh God, Sherlock," John's hand moves faster, squeezing the length of his cock, totally engorged now, and Sherlock's fingers tighten around his and they both stroke and stroke and John arches his head back further, if that were possible, begging Sherlock to kiss him, anywhere he can reach, everywhere he can reach.

Sherlock laughs breathily and plants hot, filthy kisses along John's hair, the back of his neck, his right ear, inside and out, and down along the side of John's neck onto his shoulder blade. He nibbles, bites, licks, blows, then nibbles again along every exposed inch of John that he can find.

"Sherlock! Sherlock!" John groans out loud and the detective immediately places his left hand carefully over John's mouth, presses inward gently, to remind the doctor where he is, but John's too far gone and just too fucking grateful and then he comes in great hot spurts over his and Sherlock's hands, still intertwined over his shaft, and he groans and drops his head forward, breathing heavily.

Sherlock ignores his own erection, with a little difficulty. This night is for John. Presumably, he can take care of the problem himself later.

John blinks the tears out of his eyes and prays that Sherlock never sees them, but then doesn't much care if he does.

John Watson's aching body lies back against Sherlock Holme's angular form – and then…

 **F _inally, finally_** , thinks Sherlock, John's breath hitches and his chest begins to heave and bloody hell, he can't stop the sobs that begin to rip forth from his chest, as if they're being yanked out by utter relief and then sheer fear and pain and so much fucking anger that he can't see straight.

And then the hot tears come and he begins to sob quietly against Sherlock's hand which moves from John's mouth to lie gently along John's chest. He releases John's hand which is still wrapped around John's – now – spent cock. Sherlock wipes his palm across the sheets, then he wraps his long arms around John's tired, abused body and grips his partner as tightly as he can there in John's hospital bed. He drops his shaggy head toward the back of John's head, buries his face in John's silky hair, shuts his eyes and just holds on while the doctor sobs and rages and all but screams.

"Sherlock – they kept me tied … I couldn't stop it … I just can't …. I fucking couldn't get lose and they - I can't ... I just can't .. " John cries like a small child cries, afraid of the dark, alone with his demons.

"Shh, John, of course you can. Tell me, just tell me. You can always tell me. "

John cries and rages and his chest heaves and Sherlock prays they don't accidentally hit the call button.

His eyes still closed, Sherlock plants soft gentle kisses in John's hair, along his neck, on every inch of skin his mouth can find.

"Tell me, John. Just fucking tell me. I'm right here. Not going anywhere. Not now. Not ever. Tell me..."

And finally, at last, John Watson begins to speak, at first hesitantly, as the tears spill against his cheeks, sliding down his face to drop, hot and aching, against the back of Sherlock's strong hands.

He talks and Sherlock listens. He listens to the disjointed sentences, the words that wander all around, then come back again, he feels John's chest heave under his hands, hears the rage and desperation in his voice, sees when the overwhelming anger and frustration and the plain fucking FEAR begin to ease, as John's tears and sobs begin to slow, as his tired, aching muscles begin to relax once more, to go totally limp against his partner's body, there in his hospital bed in St. Anne's.

Sherlock holds onto the man he loves. He holds onto the man who is the missing piece of his heart, the lost fragmented section of his soul. He holds onto John Watson.

And just listens.


	2. Chapter 2

**These Characters, in their current incarnation, belong to the BBC and in their original incarnation, to the estate of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, may his name be blessed!**

**THE BOYS OF BAKER STREET**

**CH. 2**

OooOooO

This ongoing work is a trilogy.  This is Book Two.  Book One is THERE BUT FOR THE GRACE OF JOHN WATSON.  This work contains references to GRACE.  If you have not read GRACE yet, you might not “get” all the references here and you might want to go read GRACE, then come back to BOYS.

**WARNING: Attempted suicide. Language.  This is JUST a story, involving utterly lovely, but fictional characters, and the scene in question is for dramatic purposes only. Just. A Story. Period.**

**I beg you, if you have ever had any thoughts of this type, or are experiencing them now, PLEASE GET HELP. Please just talk to someone, Call someone. Please do not deprive us of your presence on this planet. WE NEED YOU.**

**OooOooO**

" **Should I alphabetize the list, John?"**

" **No, Sherlock, I don't think that's necessary," says the good doctor.**

" **I'll just start then, shall I?"**

" **Sherlock, let's get on with it. They'll be in to take more blood soon."**

" **Yes, John."**

**The lanky detective settles back, peruses his list, pen in hand.**

" **HELL."**

" **HELL? Acceptable," comes the still slightly hoarse voice. John leans back against the pillows and shuts his eyes.**

**Sherlock makes a careful mark next to the word HELL.**

" **DAMN."**

" **Sherlock – of course, HELL and DAMN are acceptable. Everyone uses them, after all, and I don't believe they can be construed to be politically incorrect these days."**

" **So – HELL and DAMN are fine."**

**Sherlock makes another mark on the page. He looks up sharply. "Then by extrapolation, DAMNATION would be –**

" **Perfectly acceptable, yes, of course, Sherlock." The doctor's sweetly lined face gives Sherlock pause.**

" **And by correlation, then, DAMN IT TO HELL –"**

" **Goes without saying," his partner murmurs.**

**He looks at John and frowns. "John, we don't have to do this right now. You're worn out, I know."**

" **Sherlock, Yes. We DO have to do this right now. Your recent – er – cursing has taken on near Biblical proportions. Carry on."**

**John does not open his eyes, but lets the detective's deep baritone wash over his tired brain.**

" **Fine. Well if the first two are acceptable, then I assume SHITE is also."**

" **Not at all imaginative, but yes, Sherlock, if that's all you can come up with at the time, that's acceptable."**

**Another mark.**

" **FUCK."**

**John opens his eyes and raises his head slightly. He fixes his partner with a firm gaze.**

" **Are you complaining about this process or are you asking if that word is acceptable?"**

**Sherlock Holmes stares back at John Watson. "I'm asking if it's acceptable, of course, John."**

**John Watson nods, leans back and shuts his eyes again.**

" **Well, since everyone in the world – and on the BBC - and since twelve-year olds in Tesco appear to use it more or less constantly, and then we'll have to keep it in the 'acceptable' category."**

**He opens one dark blue eye and glances at his companion. "But that doesn't mean I have to like it."**

" **Understood, John."**

**Another mark.**

**The detective looks at his partner. "John, I'm not certain you know the origin of the word FUCK—"**

" **Sherlock, whatever your family might think of me, I did attend Uni. And yes, I am very well aware of the origin of that particular word."**

" **Because, John, it has a most interesting historical –"**

" **For. Use. of Carnal. Knowledge. F. U. C. K. Jailers in the Old Bailey used to write it in the log books so the next shift would know what the prisoners were there for. Used to denote prostitution, both male and female."**

**Impressed, Sherlock raises one eyebrow. "John, I had no idea that you were so well versed in—"**

" **In what, Sherlock? History? Semantics? Or did you really mean to say you didn't think I had it in me?"**

**Dead silence.**

**John says, "Carry on, then."**

" **Very well and - John?"**

" **Yes, Sherlock?"**

" **I think it's safe to say that my family is besotted with you – and those who currently aren't, will be, once we are married and they've all had an opportunity to meet you."**

**Silence. "That's really very – sweet, Sherlock. Thank you."**

" **Not a problem, John. I just thought you should know." He glances at his hastily, hand-written list. "SODDING."**

" **Acceptable." John opens his eyes again to pin his lover down with that dark blue gaze. "However, NOT during marriage proposals."**

**Sherlock smirks. "I apologize for that, John, but since I have made the one and only marriage proposal I ever intend to extend to anyone, and since you have accepted, then it's not really an issue, is it?"**

**John smiles, (Sherlock's heart turns over at that smile) "No, I guess you have a point."**

**He leans back again, shuts his dark blue eyes. "Not an issue. How are we doing so far?"**

**Sherlock looks at his list. "Well, if you count just the root curse words – five. If you count extrapolated phrasing –"**

" **Let's not count those, Sherlock. They'll bring dinner soon and you need to get something to eat also." He opens his blue eyes again. Fixes the detective with a piercing glance. "You will be eating more regularly, Sherlock."**

" **In the cafeteria, John? Are you serious?"**

**Deep sigh. "No, of course not. Well, you can leave and pick up something."**

" **Not necessary, John. There is a perfectly acceptable Cantonese down the street and they deliver."**

" **Fine. That's fine – wait." John Watson opens his eyes and lifts his head. "You mean you have been sitting here eating 'perfectly acceptable Cantonese' while I have been eating—"**

" **Sodding hospital slop? Yes, I'm afraid so, John. But let me remind you that you only began eating a few days ago and up until that time –"**

" **No need to remind me, Sherlock. Just order for two, all right?"**

" **Of course, John. But are you certain you'll be able to keep it down –"**

**His Army doctor fixes him with one dark blue glare. Sherlock recognizes John's "Take no prisoners" stare.**

" **Yes, John. Cantonese for two."**

" **Damn straight. Well, get on with it. You have by no means exhausted your repertoire of curse words – or phrases – yet."**

" **Right." The detective glances one more time at his list.**

" **Wait, Sherlock, I have to ask you. That phrase you used yesterday—"**

**Sherlock looks up at him, smiles. "CHRIST ON A CRACKER?"**

**Deep sigh. "Yes, Sherlock, that phrase. Where in god's name did you—"**

" **Sgt. Patterson," says Sherlock innocently.**

" **Patterson? Patterson. Patterson." John sits up abruptly, winces at the tug on his ribs.**

**Sherlock lays down the pad and pen, comes over to help adjust pillows behind the good doctor's back.**

" **Last year's Christmas Party at the Yard, John. Sgt. Patterson, visiting from the Edinburgh office, used that phrase at least twice during the course of his conversation with you."**

**John smiles, remembering. "That's right. He's originally from the States, right?"**

**Sherlock nods. "Texas, I believe. Relocated when his wife's job moved—"**

" **All right, Sherlock, I remember now." John frowns. "Sherlock, I think it's best we leave off any curse words that involve the official titles of religious saviors, Christian or otherwise, all right?"**

**Sherlock crosses a line through a phrase on his pad. "Check. No cursing to be used with the word CHRIST in it. And that includes any and all phrasing, I assume also."**

" **Yes, Sherlock, that includes any and all phrasing – er, phrases."**

" **Then by extrapolation, JESUS H. FUCKING CHRIST –"**

" **Out, Sherlock, dead out." John leans back, shuts his eyes. "I think we're done here for the moment. Why don't you go order our dinner and I'll just nap for a while?"**

" **Excellent idea, John. I'll just go outside and place the order – "**

" **And no smoking. You're done with that. So pick up patches if you're going out."**

**Sherlock, already at the door, glances back. "John, I don't think we should make too many changes too soon."**

" **We're making that one right now, Sherlock. No smoking. Use. The. Patches."**

**Sherlock raises one eyebrow at his lover's insistent tone, then sighs. "Yes, John. I'll just go out here and toss the remainder of the pack away, shall I?"**

**The door begins to close.**

" **Sherlock Holmes, get your bloody arse back in here this fucking instant."**

**The detective peaks around the door.**

" **John! I think you just used two more words that need to be put in the acceptable category."**

" **Sherlock, I swear to god, hand over that pack of —"**

" **John, explain something to me." The detective comes back into the hospital room. "If Christ is not acceptable, why is God acceptable?"**

" **Because it can be any god, Sherlock, not necessarily THE God. But the word Christ denotes one particular figure in human history who – "**

" **But what if you were Muslim, John. Or Hindustani. Or even Wic –"**

**John Watson sits up again and opens his dark blue eyes, gone stormy now.**

" **Sherlock?"**

" **Yes John?"**

" **Get the bloody hell out of my hospital room and order us Cantonese for dinner, all right?"**

" **Yes, John."**

" **Oh and Sherlock-"**

" **Still here, John."**

" **I think we should leave off the specific names of any and all deities – of all faiths - just to be on the safe side."**

**Sherlock Holmes nods his curly head vigorously. "I totally agree, John."**

**He peeks back around the door into John's room. "I'll be back in a few sodding minutes with our god damned dinner, John."**

**John Watson leans back and sighs. "I've created a fucking monster." He closes his eyes and tries to nap.**

OooOooO

It is quiet there in John Watson's hospital room. The sounds of pleasure, of pain, of agony, of loss, of so much fear that the doctor can't begin to catalogue it, have been replaced with a blissful silence.

_At least they weren't loud enough to alarm the nurses,_ thinks Sherlock.

And – he is grateful for this – they didn't hit the call button. Not once.

Sherlock kisses John's head and neck. The doctor's body has gone more or less totally limp in his arms. John's head falls forward and his breathing becomes more regular. Sherlock can feel John's heart beat through his fingertips, where they rest against John's chest. Just for a moment or two, he sits there and lets the blessed beat reverberate through his fingers. He shuts his eyes.

Finally, sighing gently, he slowly, very slowly, eases himself out from the hospital bed, eases the doctor's exhausted body down as he does so. John's head lulls to one side.

"Sherlock?" the whisper is so quiet, the detective can barely hear it.

He bends over John and gently brushes the hair out of John Watson's eyes.

"Shhh, John, go to sleep now. We'll talk in the morning."

"K, but not fair to you." John Watson murmurs.

Sherlock smiles gently. He crosses quickly into the bathroom, comes out with a warm wet cloth. He bends over and in the dark of the room, lit only by the small tree in the window and now the light that comes from the open bathroom door, he wipes John's forehead and eyes, then cleans John up.

He goes to the cupboard in the corner, removes a top sheet and clean blanket, crosses back to John Watson's hospital bed and with one swoop pulls the old bedding off the doctor, then replaces it with a clean top sheet and the blanket, but not until tugging John's boxer shorts back up around his lean hips.

Finally, he pulls the side rail back up again and clicks it into place– John might have another attack and if so, the first thing the doctor will do is try to get out of the bed.

Sherlock stands there in the dark of John's hospital room and watches his Army doctor sleep. John Watson sleeps the sleep of total exhaustion, worn out from the sweet release of their love-making, as well as the overwhelming emotional release from the crying jag.

Drowned in sleep, John rolls his head to the side so Sherlock can more clearly see his features. John's forehead is creased with new lines, lines that did not exist a few weeks earlier but that are oh so clear, even in the muted light that streams from the open door of their small loo.

Sherlock's heart does a slow, lazy turn in his chest and his breath catches.

His fingertips clutch around the cold metal of the bed railing.

"Mine," he thinks. "He's mine…Always was. But now he's agreed to it – officially. Mine - for as long as we have together. For as long as we have …. "

Sherlock feels the familiar stirring in his groin and glances downward at himself, sighs.

He crosses into the bathroom, shuts the door. Twenty-five minutes later, he comes out, freshly showered, wearing his flannel pajama bottoms and a ratty grey shirt, his dark blue robe slung carelessly around him. He's barefoot.

He checks on John again. Still sleeping. Still breathing slow and steady.

He pads over to the divan in the corner of the room, spreads out the sheet and picks up the blanket from the corner of the divan, where he'd tossed it hours ago.

He arranges his pillow so he can see John's sleeping form easily, stretches out his long form on the divan and pulls the blanket around his body.

Then he rests his dark head on his right hand and lies there in the dark, and watches John Watson breath, listens to the quiet sound of his heart monitor.

Sixty minutes later, the night nurse eases the door open, comes into the room to check on her patient and smiles at the sleeping form on the divan. It is so rare that any of them see Sherlock Holmes sleep.

Without waking either of them, she takes John Watson's temperature, checks the battery on his portable heart monitor, then firmly tugs the sheet and blanket around him, and leaves the two of them alone to rest.

In the quiet peacefulness of John Watson's hospital room in St. Anne's, Sherlock Holmes sleeps. And dreams.

For once, he does not dream of the Pool.

He stands near a precipice, in the half-light of early evening. Clouds race across the deepening sky, break apart in the near faded sunlight and are blown away with the wind.

The air he breathes is so cold, it hurts his lungs to inhale.

The wind howls around him, icy, frigid. It blows through the curls on his head and whips his dark coat around his figure. He can feel his hands freezing even as he plunges them into the pockets of his coat to warm them. He wonders what has happened to his gloves.

He stares across the horrid gap at his feet at what appears to be a house of old European design, perhaps a villa? It stands on the opposite ridge and most of its narrow windows are brightly lit. The design of the windows, the overall architecture tells him this is somewhere in The Alps? Switzerland? Germany? There appears to be some sort of path that makes its winding way up the side of the opposite peak, finally ending at the villa entrance.

Sherlock looks around him at the thin snow cover that lies on the ground, the bare wind-whipped trees, hears their branches as they scrape against one another.

He stares back at the illuminated villa, then glances at the yawning chasm at his feet. Too close. He stands too close to the edge.

Someone stands off to the side, watching him. In his sleep, Sherlock frowns. He cannot see this person but he knows he is there. In his dream, Sherlock hears a quiet, nearly familiar laugh.

It is not a nice laugh.

Far below, he can just make out the frothy tumble of a gigantic water fall, can hear the muted roar of thousands, no make that millions of gallons of water, glacier ice melt, rolling downward like thunder, as it makes its tangled way down the mountainside, finally cascading into the raging river far below.

The unearthly cold of the icy spray from the waterfall hits him in the face; his hair and clothing is damp from it.

He stares downward at the water, hears a footstep on the path behind him.

"Sherlock?"

It's John's voice. He shouts at John Watson to go back, not to come any closer to the edge. John ignores him.

John walks determinedly up to him, to stand by his side. Sherlock stares into John Watson's dark eyes as he realizes that now they both stand on the very edge of the precipice.

"John, I told you to go back. I don't want you here."

The doctor frowns. In his dream, Sherlock is confused at John's appearance. The doctor's hair is shorter, much shorter. He wears dark, unfamiliar clothing, a military-style jacket and dark boots. Sherlock notes all these things but it is John's demeanor that discomfits him the most.

In his dream, John's skin is darker than the detective has ever seen it; even in the light of early evening, Sherlock notes the tanned skin, the new lines of stress around John's eyes, which flicker around the landscape, noting every aspect of their surroundings. John is on full alert; he scans the area, finally glances across the chasm toward the villa.

John's eyes narrow; he looks up at Sherlock, one eyebrow raised in inquiry.

The doctor stands with an almost military posture, and Sherlock notes he holds a weapon in his gloved right hand. He is much thinner than Sherlock remembers John ever being.

John's forehead is lined, but he looks ten years younger. Maybe it's the weight loss, the tanned skin, the so obvious appearance of health and strength that exudes from John's skin. Sherlock feels a frisson of joy at John's so obvious recovery from his recent illness.

He holds himself with a quiet military demeanor. Sherlock realizes he is seeing Captain John Watson, of her Majesty's Army. It is the first time he has ever really seen this John, except in photographs, and occasional glimpses when they are on a case, and John suddenly takes charge to override Sherlock's bullshit – or to save their lives.

John Watson stares from Sherlock Holmes' eyes downward to take in the sight of the waterfall below them. Sherlock's eyes widen. A steady red dot suddenly appears in the middle of John's chest, over the dark jacket he wears. Sherlock's' breath catches and as he begins to reach for John, he hears the whining echo, the too close bee buzz of a shot. John's body recoils backward and he begins to lose his footing, even as the detective makes a grab for him, for his jacket, for any purchase he can get on the soldier's body before it falls.

" **Sherlock."**

John falls heavily to his knees, a small circle of dark red stains the front of his jacket, so dark it's nearly indistinguishable from the leather. Before Sherlock can pull him back up, his body begins to slide backwards, over the precipice. He grasps wildly at rock, at roots that jut out from the edge of the cliff he stands on, as his body desperately attempts to remain upright, to compensate for the sudden loss of equilibrium, for the overwhelming feeling of vertigo.

Somewhere close by Sherlock hears that laugh again.

He knows that laugh.

" **Sherlock."**

And now the doctor is falling, his boots can find no purchase and Sherlock reaches out frantically for John's fingertips as the doctor shouts his name, bends over to grab at John's wrists. He can – just – touch John's gloved fingertips as he makes one desperate lunge to take hold of John Watson's extended hands … And then he watches as John Watson falls … falls … falls.

The last thing he hears is his own desperate scream.

" **Sherlock. WAKE UP. SHERLOCK!"**

The light behind John's bed clicks on, then the overhead room light. There is the sound of a bed rail being hastily lowered. Bare feet hit the floor.

Sherlock Holmes, nearly hyperventilating now, finally jerks his eyes open to find John's haunted eyes staring down at him. He grasps at John's tee shirt, grasps and holds on.

"John?"

"Yes, Sherlock. It's me. You were having a nightmare. Come out of it, okay?

"John. I'm – I'm awake. I'm fine." Sherlock sits up, swings his long legs over the divan. He pulls the sheet with him. He swipes a hand across his forehead and stares at the cold sweat on his fingertips.

John sits down next to him and looks at him with concern.

"Sure you're okay now?" he says quietly.

Sherlock shakes his head once in an attempt to shake off the nightmare ( _where in the bloody hell did that one come from?_ ) runs a hand through his tangled curls. He glances at John, suddenly concerned. "John, you shouldn't be out of bed."

"I totally concur, Doctor Watson."

The night nurse comes on into the room, goes to John's bed and clicks on the more muted light. She glances at both men, shakes her head.

"Doctor Watson, you set off the bed alarm when you got up. Are you all right?"

"Yes. Yes, I'm fine." John starts to stand up, is assailed by a sudden attack of mild vertigo and sits back down suddenly. Sherlock looks at him in concern.

"No, John, you're not all right. Let me help you."

He gently pulls the doctor to his feet, then guides him around the end of the bed. Together, he and the nurse get the doctor settled back into bed. She pulls the sheet and blanket back up around him, then brushes her hand across his forehead.

"You're a little warm but I think it's from the room being a tad bit too warm. I'll be right back. It's time to take your vitals and a blood sample anyway." She pauses at the door. "Now please stay put until I return, all right?"

John nods.

He glances at Sherlock who has taken his seat beside his bed. The detective stares at the floor, then raises his head to meet his partner's eyes.

"Sherlock? What was that back there? Was it -?"

"The pool again, John? No. No. It wasn't the pool. Something new tonight."

John watches him but the detective volunteers nothing. A sudden wave of exhaustion washes over the doctor and he momentarily closes his eyes.

"John?"

"I'm fine, Sherlock. Just tired. Very, very tired." His eyes close and his voice begins to trail off.

"Sherlock?"

"Yes, John?" The detective leans over John and twitches the blanket more closely around him.

"Earlier. That – well, about that –"

The detective laughs gently. "Yes, John?"

" I just want – that was bloody fantastic, Sherlock. Really."

His voice holds quiet amusement, but then trails off. His eyes are closed.

Sherlock just laughs. "Go to sleep, John. I'm right here. "

"And so am I gentlemen." The nurse comes back in to check John's vitals.

Sherlock sighs. He sits back and watches the proceedings. But John is so far gone in sleep, he barely reacts while she takes his temperature, checks his blood pressure, then takes another 2 small vials of blood.

Sherlock frowns at this, but presumably they know what they are doing. He's never seen so many blood samples drawn from one person in his life.

OooOooO

The next afternoon, John insists they try to rein in Sherlock's cursing.

Sherlock doesn't see the need, but he wants John to be happy, so he agrees to the exercise.

Afterward, he gets dinner for both of them. As they sit in John's room, eating in companionable silence, just comfortable with each other's company, John leans forward suddenly, coughs, unused to any real solid food yet.

Sherlock hands him the glass of water quickly, concerned. John drinks, sighs, hands the glass back to Sherlock. All better.

He lays back, his eyes streaming. "Bloody hell, that was stupid," he says.

"Okay, now?" The doctor nods.

He takes the glass from John and sits it back on the table by John's hospital bed.

Then he leans over and kisses John on the forehead, "Be careful, you idiot, you only get to die on me once."

He is at the door of John's hospital room, preparatory to getting them both a cup of tea from the nurse's station, when he realizes his mistake.

John's voice is quiet, adamant.

"Sherlock – what do you mean, I only get to die on you once?"

Sherlock turns slowly to stare at his lover, sitting up on the side of his bed, there in St. Anne's.

John stares at him. Take no prisoners.

John stares at him, his body slightly twisted sideways so he can see Sherlock better.

"What do you mean?" he repeats. "Sherlock?"

Sherlock stares. John stares back. Sherlock continues to stare. Again with the staring.

"Sherlock Holmes, come back here this instant and you will fucking explain that."

Sherlock sighs; steps back into the room and shuts the door behind him. He crosses over to John's bed, pulls up his chair, the one he has sat in for nearly three weeks now, while he watches John sleep, watches John breath, watches John's heart monitor. Watches John – be alive.

He leans forward, temples his fingers under his chin. And starts to talk.

OooOooO

"Bloody hell," **John says.**

**Then** , "You are fucking kidding me, right?"

**Finally** , "This is MY life, Sherlock Holmes, mine. You don't get to do things like this. You don't get to keep things like THIS a secret!"

Sherlock's eyes widen as he stares into John's dark blue eyes, dark today, darker than the darkest bits of ocean, dark like bruises are dark. Just really, Really dark.

"When were you going to tell me?" says John incredulously.

Sherlock winces.

John stares at him. "What else have you not told me?"

He looks at Sherlock, at the dark tousled hair with its wild ebony curls, at the aquiline nose, the impossible cheekbones, the alien eyes. He stares at his lover, his best friend, hell, his fiancée' he thinks, if that term is appropriate to this situation.

" _It is_ ," his mind tells him. " _For want of a better term_."

Okay, then, he stares at the man he is going to marry – and sees the machinations behind his eyes.

There is something else, John is sure of it.

He will not let Sherlock out of his room until he finds out what it is.

Sherlock stares back at John, at the spikes of dark blonde, not quite brown hair that hang over the sweetly lined brow, at the slight snub nose, the familiar cheekbones, thinner now then they were, so much thinner, at the open, honest blueness of John's gaze, gone all dark now like bruises. He stares at his lover, his best friend, the man he is going to marry.

And realizes he has really, Really fucked up this time.

"John," Sherlock says in that near impossible baritone. "You might want to lie back and get comfortable. This is going to be a long conversation."

He cocks his head at John's near thunderous expression.

"Shall I just pop out and get our tea first?"

John's expression does not change. If anything, it gets darker. More thunderous. Storms over the Andes don't hold a candle to John's current expression.

"Er, all right. No tea then."

Sherlock stands, moves to John's side. The smaller man looks – no, glares – up at him.

"John, we can do this the easy way or the hard way. I will tell you everything that happened while you were – sleeping – but first you are going to get in that bed and get warm and comfortable. Understood?"

More murderous staring.

Finally, **finally,** his Army doctor nods – once. He moves to scoot himself backward, but Sherlock just bends, scoops John's legs up and over, then helps him to adjust his body in the small hospital bed. Their bed now, Sherlock thinks. Their bed now.

He pulls the sheet and blanket up over John, more or less tucks him in, then turns around, pulls his own chair as close as he can get it to John's bed and still have room for his long legs. He sits down, takes John's right hand in both of his, folds his long fingers around John's hand, and leans forward.

Fixing John with the same gaze that has stared down murderers, Sherlock begins to speak.

The look has no effect on John Watson. He's seen Sherlock's party trick before. He just listens.

As Sherlock speaks, first one – then both – of his sandy eyebrows tries to crawl up his forehead into his hair line. Sherlock talks and keeps on talking.

OooOooO

John is tired and wants to sleep. To be fair to the good doctor, he is still slightly stunned by Sherlock's acknowledgement of recent events.

Sherlock leaves John with the night nurse. In another day, perhaps two at the most, they will move John to the new cardio wing, the wing that Mycroft tells Sherlock the Holmes' family more or less owns. And then?

Sherlock leaves to go out to smoke the last of the cigarettes he has held back from the last pack.

He just wishes he could move John out of the hospital altogether. Even if it means taking him to the Holmes estate, before a more suitable location can be found.

Not for the first time, Sherlock remembers Moriarty's taunt on the 3rd DVD. His remarkable memory plays back the hateful words:

**_Rather than return a VERY broken man to you – and have you make the utterly hateful decision as to which institution you place your life partner in for the remainder of his pathetic days – I have decided to take this obviously wrenching scenario out of your hands._ **

**_Once our good Doctor Watson has served his purpose – and we are only a short while away from that, dear Sherlock - I promise to send you a message -_ **

He breaks off the memory before the end. The bit about Moriarty dumping John's body in a skip for him to find.

He winces at the memory. And wishes, not for the first time, that he had James Moriarty in his grasp at this moment.

And yet here he is – trying to make decisions for John that he never thought he would have to make.

Then he remembers Dr. Merit's admonition: these decisions have to be made by John himself – or at least, he has to be involved in the process.

Sherlock nods as he watches the smoke huff out in the frigid air in front of him.

It is time for Dr. Merit and Sherlock – and Mycroft, if need be – to sit down with John Watson and discuss John's options. Discuss everything. Everything.

It has – nearly – stopped snowing. Tonight there will be a hard freeze and in the morning the roads will be treacherous.

As much as he wants to go home to Baker Street, home to Mrs. Hudson, to their flat, to their chairs in the living area – to their bed – he cannot even consider such a thing without John.

He has vowed he will not return without John. So….a while longer at least.

Mycroft mentioned a clinic in Italy – and one in Switzerland.

Or the Holmes estate.

Sherlock smokes his last cigarette for god knows how long and wonders what John will say when he broaches the subject of moving in with Mummy.

The Holmes estate is vast. He and John would be quite comfortable there in what used to be Sherlock's wing. John would have the privacy Sherlock knows he desperately wishes for – and needs. The privacy in which to heal, to deal with this little bit of hell that has escaped its dominion to run rampant through their lives.

But everything comes with a price. And there are certain circumstances that can make even the largest, most comfortable living spaces shrink until you feel you are choking from the cloying _closeness_ of it all.

He imagines John Watson will not be too pleased at the prospect. To be honest, Sherlock himself is not at all pleased. And he and John have yet to discuss any circumstances of their future lives together – other than John's acceptance of Sherlock's proposal.

But anything to get John out of this hospital. Anything. Even if it's temporary until better, more professional, accommodations can be arranged.

John has been abnormally quiet all afternoon. Sherlock knows John's moods and knows the doctor is thinking over events, trying to piece his recent knowledge into his own spotty memories.

Make the puzzle pieces fit somehow in his tired brain.

And still he doesn't know it all. Sherlock has told him bits, pieces. But not everything. He feels he has no right to play with his partner's memories, to screw around with his head like that without professional guidance.

They need to get John Watson professional help. Presumably Mycroft – and Mummy – have that in hand.

Sherlock just prays the doctor's not rethinking his proposal. If John were to change his mind, he feels the rejection might just kill him.

He grinds the cigarette butt under his heel into ash, then plunges his hands into his pockets and stares at the snow, at the sky. Before long, the clouds will clear, the temps will drop and London will find itself in the midst of a deep freeze.

Sherlock has to admit, despite his desire to take John away from St. Anne's, there has been something almost – cozy – about their room here. For one thing, it has held no distractions at all in the shape of clothing tossed willy nilly around the flat, dishes left on side tables until one of them decides to do the washing up – or Mrs. Hudson takes pity on the boys and does it herself - and yes, being utterly ruthless with himself, countless experiments in progress.

Sherlock is quietly amazed that he has not gone round the twist, being away from Baker Street, away from his projects (he momentarily winces when he remembers what he left "cooking" away in certain petri dishes on the kitchen table) or from the daily detritus of two men living together.

But truth be known, the orderliness, the quiet, and at night, the peacefulness of John's room there has acted as a balm to Sherlock's agitated soul. He has been able to put all of his attention on the doctor – right where it needs to be.

For that, Sherlock Holmes is grateful.

Now if only he can figure out how to make both of them mutually _comfortable_ this evening – yes, in John's hospital bed – then things will more or less be, well, not perfect, of course, but pretty darn good, while John continues to heal.

John once told him that when it came to sex, he – Sherlock – was "like a kid in a sweet shop" – he wanted it all, all at once, and he wanted it with John Watson.

Sherlock remembers that John was not – displeased – by the analogy, but actually acted rather smug about it.

Sherlock smiles as he tucks his scarf more tightly around his neck to keep out the utter cold.

_Kid in a sweet shop indeed._ There are some things – a lot of things – that just aren't done with a sick man in a hospital bed. But there are _some_ things – Sherlock considers the various angles, goes over the ramifications, ponders probable outcomes – nods and smiles, yes, indeed, there are _some things_ that they can most certainly try.

It all depends on John's health and willingness to, er, experiment.

If only there were some sort of lock on that stupid door.

Sherlock takes this on as a personal challenge.

He turns his back on the white landscape, soon to be a frozen one, and re-enters St. Anne's, still thinking over the evening to come when he hears the text chime.

He waits until the elevator door closes behind him before he checks his text.

**Watson**

**Hurry**

There are no call initials. How can that be? Ah, of course. Mycroft's agent outside the door.

His heart threatens to pound out of his chest and Sherlock nearly groans out loud at the seeming slowness of the elevator.

The hateful door finally opens, and he tears out, turns to his left, nearly running over a nurse in the process. He literally runs to John's room, notes that his brother's agent no longer stands guard outside the door. He pushes through the door and comes to a dead stop, stares.

His heart nearly erupts into his lungs to choke him.

Mycroft's man stands in front of him, his hands open and to the side. One of John's nurses is a little in front and to the side of him. Behind him, at the nurse's station, Sherlock can hear that all hell is breaking loose, but he ignores it.

He only has eyes for John.

John Watson stands in the middle of the room, his eyes wild, not entirely focused. His entire form is shaking, tree in a storm. He is dressed in a tee shirt and boxers – Sherlock had helped him clean up and change earlier that afternoon – and he stands there, his right arm held out to his side.

John grips something in his left hand and he's holding it over his bare right arm.

Sherlock realizes immediately it's the safety razor from John's kit.

For one second, he thinks that John has lost his mind. There simply is not enough blade exposed to actually do any damage. Then he notes the way John holds the razor. He grips it by the head, in his left hand, the handle points away from him. And he tilts it slightly so the blade is resting on his exposed skin, lengthwise, right over his wrist.

John is a doctor and knows the correct way to slit a wrist. Amateurs always go crosswise. Looks effective on telly, but provided help arrives in time, you can survive a cut like that.

John holds the razor in such a way to get the job done properly – the thin shining blade will slit through his veins in a heartbeat. And they may or may not be able to stop the damage – provided someone can wrestle him to the ground.

If John does both wrists – Sherlock stands there, his mind racing.

"Doctor Watson," Mycroft's agent says quietly. "You want to put that down, Sir."

Sherlock realizes he doesn't even know the man's name. And he's been one of three agents standing guard outside John's room since he entered St. Anne's.

The nurse is patently terrified for her patient. She tries to talk to him in a calm voice but Sherlock can hear her voice shaking.

"Doctor Watson – John – please put the razor down. Please, Doctor Watson. You do not want to do this."

"I fucking **do** want to do this – you arse holes won't get me any HELP!" hollers John.

His voice is hoarse again, shakes. His eyes are wild, the pupils mere pinpricks in the overhead lights.

Behind him, Sherlock hears nurses shouting orders at each other; he hears "Dr. Merit" and "Mr. Holmes" and " Emergency Services" and "get a hypo prepped – now." He lets it all wash over him.

And concentrates only on John.

Sherlock takes a step forward, another. He is nearly level with the agent now.

John turns his head to see Sherlock – and his eyes widen.

"Sherlock! I'm – " his voice starts to come in gasps.

Sherlock sees his left fist tighten over the body of the plastic razor housing. The doctor has lowered the razor where it is now resting directly on his skin.

"John," says Sherlock. "John, I'm here."

He holds his hands out, open palms toward the sick man, and moves another step closer to John.

"Sherlock! Sherlock! I can't – it burns! Oh, god, Sherlock!"

John's hands shake now – his eyes are wild, crazed with pain and fear and he looks only at Sherlock. His hands shake so violently that Sherlock is afraid he will cut himself whether or not they can get him to calm down.

Sherlock does not know how far John is into this attack. He wonders if John has hit the part yet where his spine usually arches. He doesn't think so. The doctor usually passes out momentarily at that time. It would be the perfect opportunity to take the doctor down, wrestle the razor out of his hand.

He takes another step toward John.

Mycroft's agent, now level with Sherlock, imperceptibly shakes his head at the detective.

"Wait," he whispers. "I've called for help. Just keep him talking."

_Yes and what type of help_ , Sherlock wonders. _Help for them - or help for John?_

He glances sideways at Mycroft's man and as if by telepathy, the man's eyes swivel to Sherlock's' and he mouths the word "Taser."

Sherlock's eyes widen. He stares back at John Watson. John looks at Sherlock – and the detective sees every single minute of pain, frustration, agony, and fear on his lover's face – every single minute of the past weeks, since John was taken.

All there for anyone to see who has eyes to see with.

John looks at Sherlock in desperation, tears welling up in the dark blue eyes.

And Sherlock Holmes feels his heart suddenly fill, break, spill over with a love so overwhelming, it threatens to choke off his air supply. He literally shakes with love for John Watson, as he watches the man stand there in agony, threatening to harm himself.

John speaks to him – only to him now, as if no one else is in the room - and his voice is nothing but a ragged whisper.

"Why, Sherlock?" says John Watson. "Why would you want me – why would you want _this_?"

At the raw, heartbreaking words, Sherlock momentarily closes his eyes – then reopens to see, to really _see_ John. He sees the fear, the pain, the overwhelming confusion – hell, he can hear John in his head: " _How did we get here? What happened to us to get us to this point? And - how do we get back again?"_

And he is so familiar with these feelings, that they coalesce in his heart into one emotion so strong, that grips his chest with such intensity, he momentarily feels light-headed.

"Why, Sherlock?" John's voice shakes with emotion, with despair.

He looks at Sherlock Holmes, then down at his left hand, gripped so tightly around the razor and at the way it rests now over the exposed skin.

He momentarily shuts his eyes, then yanks them open to look at the detective, who has taken another small step forward, past Mycroft's agent, who just shakes his head.

"I'm fucked up, Sherlock. Totally – completely fucked up. There's no way you could want this."

He glances down at his arm, whispers, "No way."

And at those quiet words of desperation, John tilts the razor preparatory to swiping it along the vein under the skin of his wrist.

Sherlock plays his trump card. The one thing that has always worked with John when reasoning goes out the window.

"John."

He modulates his voice to be as deep as possible. He uses the same voice with John Watson that he uses in the privacy of their bedroom.

No one else is there with them. Just he and John. Just he and John. Alone in John's room in St. Anne's.

Alone.

"John," he repeats again.

John Watson looks from his shaking hand to Sherlock Holmes' steady gaze.

If he had seen any pity there, even a drop – but there is no pity in Sherlock's steady gaze.

Just love.

Only love.

John looks at Sherlock – and suddenly Sherlock knows how this is going to end.

The doctor looks at him, then down at the razor in his shaking hand. A look of utter revulsion, of disbelief crosses his features.

John opens his hand and lets the razor fall to the floor. He tries to take a step backwards, to put distance between himself and his actions.

Sherlock crosses the remaining steps between them and grabs John's hands in his.

He holds onto John's arms, stares into his partner's tortured dark gaze.

John looks back at him, wild eyed, then slowly, the doctor slumps against Sherlock's body; his eyes close.

Sherlock wraps his arms around John Watson, and sinks with him to the floor as the doctor goes limp.

"John," he whispers, his arms around the doctor.

Suddenly John's head snaps back and his spine arches – he groans out loud and Sherlock holds on to his body, rides out the attack, grits his teeth, and watches the agony play across John's tired face.

Sherlock glances around. "Help me," he snaps over his shoulder.

The nurse is there with a hypo. She swipes the crook of John's elbow with an alcohol swab, injects the medication. Slowly, it goes in so slowly, that Sherlock wants to scream with impatience. Finally, she presses a cotton pad against the tiny pin prick and presses down.

She glances up at Mycroft's agent.

"I need Dr. Merit in here - Now!" she snaps.

The agent's eyes narrow as he takes in the scene, then he nods and leaves. Even as he rushes out, he pulls out his mobile.

Sherlock can hear the commotion behind him at the nurses' desk, but he only has eyes for John Watson.

John groans again, his eyes closed, his entire body stiff in Sherlock's embrace.

Sherlock just hangs on, he has a death grip on John's body; if John goes down for the count, they both go.

Finally, finally John's body goes limp. His eyes close in exhaustion. Sweat drips from every pour. It soaks his hairline, drips down the side of his face.

"John, John," whispers Sherlock. He bends over the doctor and mouths his words into John's skin.

"John, I'm here."

He strokes one firm hand through the dark blonde spikes.

At the sound of Sherlock's voice, John opens his eyes with an effort and stares straight into Sherlock's. Sherlock braces himself for more of the vitriol John poured out at him a few days ago.

John just looks at the man he loves and his eyes reflect something so distant, Sherlock cannot fathom how far away he is at that moment.

"John." He whispers again.

"Sherlock," comes the quiet whisper. John's voice is resigned, torn. "I – I think I need help."

And he loses consciousness, goes slack in Sherlock's embrace.

Behind him, the detective hears the rush of feet, knows without turning around that another of Mycroft's men has entered the room, knows what he will see if he turns.

But he doesn't turn.

Instead, he gathers John Watson's tortured body up in his arms and buries his face in John's neck.

"I'm going to help you, John. I swear to god we are going to help you. Just hang in there with me, that's all you have to do, okay?"

He doesn't recognize his own voice. He finds he is shaking so uncontrollably that it is a wonder he can hold onto the other man.

Beside him, the nurse eases up on her grip on John's arm, gets to her feet. She bends over and places one slim hand on Sherlock's shoulder.

"We have to get him back up into the bed," she says.

Sherlock nods, but makes no move.

He just rocks John's body gently.

"We have time, John," he whispers into the dark blonde hair. "We have time. It's going to be all right. I swear to God and all that is holy, we will get you what you need. I promise you, John. I promise you."

He continues to gently rock John Watson, his eyes closed.

Behind him, Mycroft's men move forward.

OooOooO

**Lucerne, Switzerland. A small pharmaceutical office located in the heart of the business district.**

Two man walk into the front office. Request to see the acting director. They are expected.

As they wait, the taller man pulls out his cell, glances at the screen.

His companion fixes him with a steady gaze.

"Well?" he says.

"Two rooms at the Hilton Apart-Hotel. Confirmed."

"A three-star hotel, Billings? I don't think so."

The dark-eyed man reaches for his companion's cell phone, makes a quick call.

After speaking rapidly, he hangs up.

He fixes Billings with those near coal black eyes that give the other man pause.

"The Schweizerhotel, confirmed. Five Star. I prefer it. Although Sebastian usually stayed at The Palace. Another five star. You're at the Hilton. One night. Make certain the car is there to pick me up at 8:00 in the morning."

Billings nods, swallows. "Yes sir. Schweizerhotel. Got it."

His companion says dryly, "I highly doubt that. But you'll learn."

_And God does he miss Sebastian Moran._

Moran knew his likes, his dislikes. The two men worked as one well-oiled machine and he never had to worry about mundane, idiotic things like hotel arrangements, car rentals.

_Sweet Jesus, the stupid fucking things he has to turn his mind to now that Seb is–_

His mind skitters away from that for a moment. He frowns.

The blonde receptionist takes a call, looks up.

"Herr Strunk will see you now," she says in her careful English.

"Damn right he will," says James Moriarty.

OooOooO

"But sir, our findings show the exact opposite. The tests that Doctor Franks requested all exhibit exactly the same results – save one."

The man with the coal black eyes stares straight into Strunk's eyes. And smiles.

Strunk swallows at that smile _. Dear Heaven, where did this man come from? And where is Doctor Franks?"_

"And what, exactly, results are those? Doctor Franks will want to know."

"Seven of the eight, er test subjects exhibit decreased levels of the drug in their bloodstream, a few weeks after they are – removed - from the substance in question.

Their addictions are then more or less controllable with certain reversals used as—"

"And the eighth?"

"Died. But it turns out he had a congenital heart problem no one picked up on until it was too late."

The man with the dark hair and day-old stubble walks around the laboratory, hands in pockets of his expensive slacks. He glances at the scientific paraphernalia, the microscopes, cabinets full of equipment. Looks at the long counter the young man now sits at.

"So, the eight subject died from a heart defect," he muses.

The Director, also a chemist, nods, swallows. He nervously looks from the tall, frankly menacing man who stands at the inside entrance to the lab door, his hands crossed in front of him, to the man with the black eyes who stands in front of him now.

"Sir, are you an associate of Dr. Franks?"

"Yes, actually, the good doctor worked for me – and my organization."

Here he takes out a business card and presents it.

The chemist glances at the card, raises an eyebrow.

"Sir, I apologize. I had no idea. All of our communication has been with Doctor Franks or with the representatives at his various pharmaceutical houses—

"Yes, yes, that's all fine. But from now on, all of your communications will be with me – including the results of any and all tests."

He moves to pick up the file on the desk in front of him, raises an eyebrow.

"For example, this particular report is wrong and needs to be amended as soon as possible. Then I expect you to send those results to the following laboratory at this address in the U.K."

He extends a slip of paper, the chemist takes it, reads it, and swallows again.

"I – I don't understand. What is false about the reports – Sir?"

The man with the black eyes leans in toward him. "Your reports are erroneous. The latest test subject died because of the long-term effects of the drug. And you will lose another subject – and another – in the next week or so. Your amended report will reflect this information."

He smiles into the Director's eyes, now dumbfounded.

"And the sooner you correct your findings, the better. Now, where is a computer I can use?"

Strunk looks at him incredulously, then to the man who stands at the door.

"I cannot falsify my findings. It is not done. Impossible."

Black eyes turn toward him, nods once at the man at the door, who walks quietly forward and removes something from his coat pocket.

Strunk glances at the gun, swallows, wide-eyed now. He looks back at black eyes. Nods once.

Coal eyes smiles. "Yes, I thought we would get on."

He shrugs out of his jacket, takes a pen out of his pocket, a pretty little thing made of platinum and gold. Then he seats himself at one of the laboratory chairs.

"Now, Doctor – Strunk, is it? Yes, Doctor Strunk, let me tell you exactly what your amended reports are going to say – and who you are going to send them to."

Strunk nods, sweat pooling around his temples.

"Good. Excellent. Now pay attention."

And he leans forward and starts to dictate, all the time tossing the little silver and gold pen end over end in his fingers.

Once the first report is rewritten – and the email sent – Jim sits back and smiles.

" _That is for Franks_ ," he thinks. He didn't give a damn about Marcus Franks personally, but it's the principal of the thing.

He swings around in the chair, stares at the borrowed computer screen. Calls up a mental picture of Sherlock Holmes – and of his companion, Doctor Watson. He smiles.

" _That's for Franks,"_ he thinks. " _I still owe you for Sebastian."_

James Moriarty opens up a new file and begins to type. As he types, he grins to himself as he thinks of the havoc, the fucking heartache that the first erroneous report is going to cause a certain consulting detective – he glances at his watch – in about thirty minutes.

Billings stands by the door, watches the interplay and smiles. He thinks he is going to like this job. If he can get past the " _Sebastian did this…and Sebastian did that."_

Well, screw Sebastian Moran. He's in this now and he's not going anywhere.

He just needs to become indispensable to James Moriarty. Quickly.

OooOooO

Anthea comes into his office, removes his overcoat and umbrella from the coatrack and stands there, here eyes dark and unfathomable, as she stares at him.

He lets a raised eyebrow ask the question.

"Doctor Merit at St. Anne's. Doctor John Watson has been put under suicide watch," she says quietly.

A small part of her heart breaks for the good doctor, a man she barely knows, but respects nonetheless.

Mycroft Holmes stands and takes his coat from her. His face is unreadable.

OooOooO

Sherlock Holmes stands in the open door of Dr. William Merit's office. And raises one elegant eyebrow.

His brother, Mycroft Holmes is already seated in one of the chairs in front of Merit's desk.

Merit sits there, looks at Mycroft, his hands crossed in front of him on the desk in front of him.

Neither he nor Mycroft speak.

Without turning, Mycroft says quietly, "Sherlock, come on in and close the door."

Sherlock comes in, shuts the door behind him. He crosses to the second chair there in front of Merit's desk. But he doesn't sit. He stares at William Merit's face, then glances sideways at Mycroft's.

John is now under constant suicide watch – and Mycroft's agent now stands inside their hospital room, to watch John until Sherlock returns. Two nurses are on constant call, as well, or Sherlock would not feel comfortable about even this short meeting. Meanwhile, the Charge nurse is frantically working to find a more private room for the good doctor. Sherlock knows these events have forced their hands. St. Anne's will want John Watson removed immediately. They simply are not equipped to handle this type of emergency. Mycroft will have to work immediately to move John from St. Anne's - to wherever he is going to go for treatment. The Holmes Estate - or ?

"I'm here. John is sleeping. What is this about?"

Dr. William Merit bows his head for a few moments, then he sighs and sits back and raises his head in order to see the detective's face.

"Mr. Holmes, Sherlock, we have – new results, new evidence if you will, of the possible long-term results of the drug Dr. Watson has been exposed to. Please take a seat."

Sherlock stares at him, at the way his hands clench on the desk in front of him, the way Merit avoids his eyes. His brother does not meet his eyes.

He sits down.

OooOooO

"There's some mistake," Sherlock protests. "John's better. He's getting better."

"We're no longer certain of that, Sherlock," says Mycroft tiredly. The older Holmes can't meet his brother's eyes. He shuts his own, then opens them to stare at his brother. His eyes say it all.

"No. You're wrong. " Sherlock looks between his brother, Merit, then back again. "You're wrong. Both of you."

He stands abruptly, goes to the window, turns his back on both of them, on the hateful file that sits on Merit's desk.

He raises one pale hand, pulls the drape aside and stares out at the world, nearly covered now, again, in snow.

"Wrong," he whispers.

Dr. Merit clears his throat. Merit stares at Sherlock's back and his gaze mirrors the anguish he felt when he first read the reports from Switzerland. The reports on Marcus Franks' eight other "test subjects" for want of a better term. Seven subjects now, since the latest death, seven subjects, if you count John Watson.

"Mr. Holmes, we've taken blood samples from Doctor Watson several times a day, each day he's been here in St. Anne's. The early samples showed clear evidence of the drug in his – in John's bloodstream. The latest shows little sign. They gave me hope. We don't have the results yet of this morning's."

Merit watches Sherlock's tall back. He doesn't move. Just stands at the window.

He sighs. Glances at Mycroft Holmes.

"But it doesn't seem to matter, according to these reports. The damage has been done. I have to go by the research findings – and by Doctor Watson's own behavior. Heart failure is heart failure. Surely you've noticed how tired Doctor Watson is. How much more tired he is now then he was just a few days ago. And please remember I did use the word 'possible.' We do not know for certain that this will be the outcome, but we have to be prepared and Doctor Watson has to be told –" Merit breaks off suddenly as he realizes that Sherlock is no longer listening to him.

Sherlock doesn't speak. He can't. He just stares out at the snow.

The sky whirls with snow, it falls in great torrents, in sheets, as if it were one of those ridiculous screen savers, the kind that make you a little dizzy to look at them. Sheets of snow; the sidewalks below are already covered; the ground covered now in little rounded hillocks, shapeless bits where the snow has softened all the edges of whatever lies beneath it. It lies in tiny piles in the crooks of tree limbs, lines up in orderly procession along power lines.

The streets are the only holdout, as the traffic keeps the asphalt wet, melts the snow almost as quickly as it falls, from the steam of automobile exhaust, the heat of engines.

Eventually, when everyone has hurried home for the long New Year's weekend, the snow will hold dominion there, too.

The detective notes all these things and dismisses them as mere backdrop to the maelstrom of emotion that has taken up residence in his chest, that even now plow through his guts as easily as a hot knife through butter.

"This 'knowing'," he thinks, "this awful knowledge, will kill me slowly, eat me alive from the inside out as the heat in John's veins burns him outward…we will both die from it…from what has been done to him. If this – thing – happens to John, than we will both die but one of us will continue to walk around, soulless, to look out from behind dead eyes on this baneful mess, this world where nothing matters. All of it pointless, all of it hateful."

Sherlock Holmes looks out at the snow and the sky that is so full of snow that it no longer has any color of its own, at bare tree limbs and dead landscape plants. He stares at it all and wishes for one sickening moment that he had never learned how to feel – how does he go back, he wonders, how does he revert to the cold, analytical being he once was, how long ago was that? he thinks, his tired brain not supplying the data he needs when he needs it. How long exactly?

Ah yes, he remembers now. It was sixty seconds before the laboratory door opened at Bart's – and Stamford walked in, followed by John Watson.

" _Not much cop, this caring lark_ ," he remembers, wincing as his own cold words come back to excoriate him.

He wishes, for one fervent moment, one hateful moment only, that he had the ability to travel back in time and change one thing in his own history. Just one.

He wishes, even as his mind flinches from the horror of his own thoughts, that somehow he could arrange it so that John Watson had died back there, that he had bled out there in the brown dust of Afghanistan.

Better for him; better for John.

He leans his aching forehead against the cold window and shuts his eyes.

Yes. Better that John had died in Afghanistan.

He opens his eyes to watch the snow come down. It makes his head ache.

"John," he whispers.

OooOooO


	3. Chapter 3

**These characters in their current incarnation belong to the BBC and in their original incarnation, to the estate of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.**

**THE BOYS OF BAKER STREET**

**CH. 3**

**WARNING: Unkind thoughts; Language; Noncon Drug Use; Noncon restraint; Attempted murder; Restrained Interrogation Techniques; Deliberate assassination; Gay slurs; Homophobic taunts; Men Going at IT; And one gratuitous use of her Majesty's royal title. If any of these things give you pause, please look away.**

**NOTE: This ongoing work is a Trilogy.  This is Book Two.   This work occasionally references events that occurred in Book One:  THERE BUT FOR THE GRACE OF JOHN WATSON. If you have not read that work, you might not "get" some of the references in this story. You might want to stop right here and go read GRACE first, then come back to BOYS.  Otherwise, your reading experience will not have the intensity that I labored so hard to create for you.**

**OooOooO**

At the window in Doctor Merit's office, as snow continues to fall outside, Sherlock opens his eyes, completely sickened at the horrid thought he has just had.

He pulls back - and is met with his own reflection in the window.

He doesn't recognize himself.

Doesn't recognize himself.

Doesn't recognize.

**Right.**

Sherlock Holmes straightens up, turns around and looks at the two men who are currently sitting there, waiting for a response from him. Any response.

"Dr. Merit, I want a copy of that report – and of every report you have on the effects of this drug and on any and all of Moriarty's victims. I want addresses – email and otherwise, and phone numbers, anything and everything you've got. I also want a copy of every single test you've run to date on John Watson since he was admitted here – and a copy of all of John's medical records, those from his stay here in St. Anne's - and any others you can obtain."

He waves at the diplomas on the wall. "These say you're not only a medical doctor – but a noted Cardiovascular Specialist and that you were head researcher on the Thomson project. Is that correct?"

Merit frowns, nods. He glances from Sherlock to Mycroft and back again.

Sherlock comes over to stand in front of Merit's desk. He leans over Merit's desk on his hands and fixes the doctor with an icy stare.

"Well, it's time to become a trained researcher again, Doctor Merit, and not one of James Moriarty's stooges."

Agitated, Merit sits up. "Now just a damned minute –"

Sherlock shakes his head. "Not implying or inferring, Dr. Merit. But I'm telling you that from my own observations – John Watson is improving daily. I'm not talking about his addiction. I'm talking about his overall health."

He straightens up and fixes Merit with a hard stare. "How many filters have those reports been run through?"

He looks at his brother, then back at Merit.

"Because there is just no bloody way there is anything wrong with John Watson's heart. And you are going to run every test known to man – today – as soon as they can be set up, to confirm that - before we go any further."

He stands, runs a hand through his tumbled curls. "There is no way, gentlemen, I am going to go in there and tell that man, a trained Army doctor, an ex-Captain in her Majesty's Army, that he might die of heart failure at any time. No. Bloody. Way."

"So let's get those tests run now, shall we? I'm going to go wake up John. And I expect the first of those tests to be conducted within the next half hour. I assume a simple EKG would be most easily done first."

"We've already performed an EKG on Doctor –"

"I'm well aware of that, Doctor Merit. I'm telling you that you are going to perform it again."

Merit sighs. "Mr. Holmes, (three weeks and he still calls him Mr. Holmes) – most of the tests you are requesting take a long time to schedule, lab space has to be set aside and may I remind you that John Watson is not the only patient in this hospital –"

Sherlock' voice is cold as ice. "And my I remind you, Dr. Merit, of the rather substantial donation that the Holmes family has made to St. Anne's? If several million pounds doesn't get John Watson preferential treatment, I am certain there are other hospitals in London that can use that money."

The two men glare at each other. Mycroft sits still, silently amused by his brother.

His hand on the telephone on his desk, Merit looks up at Sherlock as he stands over him. "Anything else you need, before I begin ordering tests?"

Sherlock nods. "Definitely. You can get me the only other person available who knows anything about this damnable drug."

Merit frowns at him.

"Lori Hansen," Sherlock snaps. "I need to see her here tomorrow, either here in your office or in John's room - after every test has been run – and not before then."

He pauses.

"And by the way, gentlemen, from this moment on, **_Doctor_** John Watson will be consulted on every single test to be performed on him and every result you obtain from those tests will be run by him."

Mycroft clears his throat and looks up at his brother.

"And while William orders these tests Sherlock, what are you going to be doing?" he asks dryly.

Sherlock turns to look at both men.

"Tonight, I am going to spend time with the man I intend to marry – and who has done me the honor of agreeing to become my life partner."

"As for tomorrow – tomorrow, once Doctor Merit gets me the information and data I have just requested, I intend to become the world's only consulting detective. Again."

At the door, he glances back, fixes both men with an icy glare.

"About bloody time, don't you think?"

The door clicks shut behind him.

Mycroft stands, looks at the closed door, then turns slowly to look at William Merit.

Merit sighs –and reaches for the phone on his desk. At the same time, he swivels his computer monitor toward him – and begins to type.

Sherlock pokes his head back in the door, glares at his brother.

"Mycroft, we need to have a talk. Now."

He goes back out again.

Mycroft Holmes stands up, stares at the closed door and nods.

"I totally agree."

He turns to the Doctor. "William, we'll speak shortly."

Merit just nods. He's on the phone. "Yes, I know it takes hours to set that up but we do not have hours. I want those tests arranged for now, before he's moved to the cardio wing in the morning. Yes. That's right. All of it."

He doesn't even acknowledge Mycroft when he leaves.

OooOooO

"I want John out of this sodding hospital, Mycroft." He stares at his brother, who stares dispassionately back.

"How soon can you – and Mummy – make that happen?"

Mycroft raises an eyebrow. He sighs – and goes out to the waiting room to make yet another call to Mummy … poor, long-suffering Mummy.

OooOooO

Sherlock hesitates at the door to John's hospital room. He glances at Mycroft's man, who stares back at him. "A nurse is with him at the moment," he says quietly.

"And another one of us–"

Sherlock nods. He's well aware that Mycroft has doubled the shifts at John's door – and that at this moment, one nurse and one agent are in John's room.

Sherlock turns away and goes to the nurse's station, more or less directly opposite John's door. The head nurse looks up at him.

"How long before John's next vitals check?" he says quietly. She consults her computer.

"He was fine 30 minutes ago. So if nothing changes about his condition, about three hours, maybe a little longer."

He nods. 'I'm going in to be with my, er - "

"It's all right, Mr. Holmes, everyone knows of your engagement." She smiles sweetly and leans toward him a little.

"We are all praying for Doctor Watson – and for you, Mr. Holmes. This can't be easy on either of you." She waves a hand in the direction of John's room, where a nurse sits with him as they speak.

He stares at her. Hesitates. He has no response when people make statements like this. But John would want him to be civil.

"We just need – some time to be alone, that's all."

"And we can give you that much, at least. Doctor Watson is due to be moved in the morning, after breakfast and morning rounds." She glances at her watch. "I can promise you three uninterrupted hours, provided of course –"

"Of course," says Sherlock dryly. "Actually, John's having tests run this morning. So these few minutes -"

She smiles her understanding, then glances beyond him and raises one eyebrow.

"Of course, I can't speak for the gentlemen at the door of Doctor Watson's room – or the one who is with him at the moment."

She looks at him meaningfully.

He nods vigorously. "Thank you."

At the door, Sherlock glances at Mycroft's man again. "I'm sending John's – Doctor Watson's nurse out – sending everyone out - and I will be on watch now."

His meaning is plain.

The man nods, once.

Sherlock opens the door quietly into John's room. John sits on the side of the bed, dressed in the Watson jim jams that Mrs. Hudson delivered earlier, along with the rest of their clean laundry. He does not turn his head toward the door when Sherlock comes in. He makes no move to stand. His hands are clasped in his lap. From where Sherlock stands, his expression is unreadable.

The nurse, who sits in the chair next to John's bed, stands and walks over to meet him. She talks quietly to Sherlock for a moment, then leaves. Mycroft's man stands just inside the door, to the side. He looks at Sherlock, then nods once and leaves, follows the nurse as she walks out.

Sherlock comes into John's room. And shuts the door with a click behind him.

OooOooO

John doesn't move. He stares straight ahead, his hands clasped in his lap.

Sherlock walks over and stands in front of him, looks down at the dark blonde hair, notes that John is clean and neat and as still as a statue. His heart gives a little lurch.

The two men stay like that, the one sitting, in pain and torment, the one standing, in pain and torment – and neither one of them speak. Slowly, John tilts his head up to meet Sherlock's steady gaze.

At the quiet anguish in John Watson's eyes, Sherlock suddenly falls to his knees and drops his head into John's lap. He shuts his eyes. And wraps his arms around John's legs.

A moment passes, then slowly, John moves his hands and places them on top of the shaggy head. Finally, " ** _Oh, God, finally,"_ ** Sherlock thinks, John starts to run his fingers through the tumbled curls. He dips his tawny head toward the dark one under his fingertips. He shuts his eyes. And inhales Sherlock.

Sherlock groans slightly and holds on more tightly to John's legs. They sit like that for a moment.

Then…"I guess I really fucked up this time, huh?" says John's quiet voice.

Sherlock laughs.

OooOooO

Hours later. After every cardio test known to man and to Doctor William Merit has been performed on John Watson, save one that has to wait for John to fast overnight, and while Merit's people and laboratory work overtime to have results for Sherlock by the morning, two grown men are bound and determined to, er, comfort each other in the rather limited space of one Doctor's hospital bed.

They manage beautifully.

OooOooO

"A plastic safety razor, John, really?"

"I suppose your magnificent brain could come up with something much better," is the wry response.

"Goes without saying. Budge over, John," sounds of two men getting settled in one small bed.

"Like what, Sherlock? Tying the sheets together into a noose and jumping? The window doesn't actually open, you know."

"Sheets, John? Plebian. Bend to the left, I haven't kissed that bit yet today."

"Hmm. Thanks. Sheets? Oh, right. Plebian. Ah…how about drowning myself in the tub?"

"Well, John, that might have worked, but you'd have to knock your head on the back of the tub first, autonomic reflexes and all. Give me your right hand. I haven't kissed those fingers yet."

"Hmmm. Thanks. You're right. The reflex response would keep me from holding my head underwater. Your hand is cold."

"Sorry. Warming it up now, John."

"Knives?"

"Plastic cafeteria knives, John? Really?"

"Right."

Silence while two men, er, hug each other in one small bed.

"I know, John - Poison !"

"I won't have you maligning Mrs. Hudson's meals, Sherlock."

"God no, John! The woman is a saint. I meant the slop you've been fed for the past week and – "

"Oh. Right. Move over a tad. I can't quite – ah…"

Heavy breathing.

"Well, I'd have to eat a lot of it before it takes effect. And then I'm more likely to die of heart problems from the cholesterol."

Dead silence. End of movements.

"Sherlock? Just kidding here. Sherlock?"

"John, Dr. Merit will be here in the morning, before they move you, and we need to have a talk. About a lot of things."

"All right. In the meantime, can we just get warm and comfortable here?"

"Of course, John. Move your leg a little – haven't kissed that bit yet."

"ummm,….Thanks."

"Sherlock?"

"hmmm….."

"Sherlock, I don't think you should – I mean, if someone comes in – "

"hmmm?"

"Sherlock, Mycroft's men might –"

"Little less talking, if you please, John. Little more active participation would be nice here."

"Sherlock, I don't see how either one of us can bend round like that-"

"Sherlock?"

"Sherlock?"

"Ohmyfuckinggod … !"

"Nope. Just me, John….little more help from you would be nice at this – Gawww…"

More breathing.

"John, you've been sitting here thinking about this, haven't you?"

"What the hell else do you think I do in here, Sherlock, when you're not around?"

"Means to an end, John. Means to an end."

And

"No more talking now, John."

Strangled noise…nice strangled noise….Really nice strangled noise…

OooOooO

"So… one report to Dr. Merit – and it's 'Good Night Vienna?' "

"In his defense, John, we're all a little tired and all extremely on edge –"

"No. Really? I hadn't noticed."

"You know, John, all available research indicates that sarcasm is the lowest form of humor—"

"Not aiming for humor, here, Sherlock. But if this is James Moriarty's doing, if those reports have been falsified –"

"Yes, John?"

"I am personally going to tear the little fuck apart with my bare hands. And stomp on all the bits."

"John? May I remind you that we all WANT the reports to be falsified. Definitely the best outcome for all concerned."

"Sherlock – you know what I meant."

"Yes, John. Stomp on all the bits."

"Damn straight."

"No, John. You had your turn. Moriarty's mine."

Dead silence.

More silence.

Really, the silence couldn't get more – well – "silencey" if it tried.

Still more silence. Then –

"Sherlock, I swear to God –"

"John, if we're going to have this talk right now, could we just – er, finish first?"

Silence. Again with the – you get the idea.

Deep sigh. "Okay, John, let me sit back up here."

Sherlock pulls his sweetie to his chest again and starts running his fingers through the dark blonde hair.

John doesn't move.

"What do you want to know first?"

OooOooO

"So … Greg and I –"

"John, there were two kill shots. Yours – bang through the heart. And I have to repeat the admiration I have for you, John Watson, that you were able to make that shot being so nearly –"

"Dead? Sherlock."

"Yes. John. Nearly dead. Excellent shot. Your trained instincts kicked in on that one. Got to be a record. And Lestrade's –"

"Took off the back of his head."

"Yup, more or less. And I've left off the best part, John."

He shifts around so he can actually see John Watson's expression. His doctor glances upward at him, smiles that grim smile that seems to be John's default expression of late.

"Mycroft was fucking covered in Moran's blood and brains."

Sherlock leans back and pulls John back against his chest.

"Must have been a glorious sight. Sorry I missed it."

Sherlock strokes John's dark blonde hair. "Oh, it was John. It was – nearly – worth the price of admission."

"Sherlock, we're going to have a talk about your use of clichés – oh, to hell with it. To hell with the curses and the clichés and to hell with everything."

"That's the spirit, John."

"Sherlock?"

"Hmmm…kissing you now John. Takes concentration. But I'm listening."

"Sherlock?"

"Yes, John?" quiet breathing.

"That last bit -?"

"Yes, John?"

"Do it again."

"Thought you'd never ask." Shifting around in bed.

"Budge over just a bit."

OooOooO

**12:00 midnight. John Watson's hospital room. St. Anne's.**

John's night nurse records her findings in her portable computer, gathers up the two vials of blood and prepares to leave.

She fixes both men with a glare.

"Gentlemen, none of us will be back in to bother Doctor Watson for anything for at least four hours. Doctor Watson? You are to rest. And when you are done resting, take a nap."

She smiles at them both. And leaves. The door shuts with a click.

Dead silence.

Sherlock looks at John, who sits on the side of his bed.

"John? Are you – tired? Want to sleep? Or something?"

John looks at Sherlock and grins. Sherlock's heart turns over. Again.

"Wide awake, Sherlock. I think I've had enough sleep to last until the zombie apocalypse."

Dead silence.

"You know, John, if I hear one more zombie apocalypse joke –"

"Never mind, Sherlock. Come here, please."

Sherlock walks over to stand in front of his sweetie and begins to drop to his knees.

John Watson grabs his wrist before he can move and shakes his head.

"Sherlock, is there one of those heaters in that small loo?"

"Pretty certain the answer is Yes, John."

John looks up at Sherlock and grins a wicked grin.

"I suddenly feel the need for a warm bath."

"Doctor Watson, I do like the way you think."

OooOooO

Sherlock's suits – dry cleaned and pressed – hang on the back of the bathroom door in plastic bags, courtesy of one of Mycroft's minions, as Sherlock thinks of them.

Between his brother's people and Mrs. Hudson, the boys have had the luxury of a steady supply of clean clothing – and in Mrs. Hudson's case, homemade cakes, pies and hot meals, which the nurses kindly reheat for them in their microwave.

For the time being, Sherlock takes the suits out of the bath and drapes them across the divan he sleeps on occasionally.

Then he turns on the overhead heater and runs a hot bath.

He backs up, preparatory to shutting the door to keep in the heat and bumps into John Watson.

"John. Are you sure you feel well enough to –"

"To what, Sherlock? Take a bath for gods sakes? Yes, I feel well enough. But I'm afraid we have to make it a shower due to stitches and cracked ribs and –"

He stands on tip toe, whispers in Sherlock's ear. "Or are you asking me if I feel well enough to go to my knees in said bathroom?"

"Sherlock?"

"Sherlock?"

"Sherlock!"

"I'm fine, John. Really. I just think my heart temporarily – "

"Sherlock, open that bloody door, and let's get inside before we let the heat out."

"That's the spirit, John."

OooOooO

"John? When you said 'go to your knees'…"

"Sherlock, for fucks sakes, just shut up for a moment."

The doctor glances around. Goes out to his room, comes back.

He shoves a pillow at Sherlock. "Here, sit on this on the edge of the tub – and do your best not to fall in, Sherlock."

"John? While your intentions are – extremely – gratifying, I might remind you of the actual honest to god _bed_ that is just a few feet away."

"And I might remind you, Sherlock, of the actual honest to god _agents_ – and a dozen nurses – who stand just a few feet away from our closed door. If that door were to open –"

"I do see your point, John."

"Damn straight." The doctor glances at Sherlock, frowns. "You're wearing too many clothes Sherlock. Take them off."

The world's only consulting detective, who by this time is sitting on the edge of one very warm tub on a very comfortable pillow, just smirks.

"Make me, John."

Never – just never – NOT EVER present a personal challenge to a much-maligned ex-Army doctor – and former Captain in her Majesty's Army – who has been cooped up, more or less, for weeks in a hospital bed. Don't do it. No personal challenges. Never. None.

Unless you want them taken on immediately. With gratifying results.

John Watson stands in front of Sherlock Holmes and wraps his arms around the taller man's neck. He stands there in front of Sherlock, between the detectives open legs, as close as he can get to the man he loves. He drops his face into the dark curls.

The two men remain like that for a moment. Then John starts to stroke Sherlock's back through the dark blue shirt. He runs his hands up and down his sweetie's back, feels the cool skin under the expensive silk of the shirt, feels the give and take of Sherlock's' lean muscles under the fabric, feels the way the slippery material catches on his slightly calloused fingers.

Immediately, he needs more. More skin. More Sherlock.

Bending slightly, John begins to undo the buttons of Sherlock's shirt. The detective just puts both his hands on John Watson's lean hips and tilts his head slightly to look into his doctors' dark eyes, while the John's clever fingers make short work of the buttons.

John stares slightly downward into those grey eyes, gone nearly crystalline now, and feels his groin tighten.

Buttons finished with, the good doctor moves his hands down to unbutton the cuffs at each wrist. As each button pops its moorings, John plants a small kiss on Sherlock's pale wrist. Then slowly, carefully, he pulls the shirt down Sherlock's body, and down his arms.

The detective moves his arms to help and the shirt ends up in a heap on the floor.

John begins to kiss his way down Sherlock's neck. The taller man's breath catches, and he leans his head to the side to allow better access. John plants warm kisses along Sherlock's ears, down the side of his neck, along his collar bone.

At this point, John either has to become more bendy – or Sherlock has to stand up to allow John access.

He elects to stand.

John gasps and kisses his way along the marble skin, pausing to circle each nipple with his tongue, to lave each bud until—

"God, John. Don't stop! Never stop," he begs.

"Not going anywhere, Sherlock," whispers the doctor. His tongue pays close attention to each pectoral, circles, licks, teases each nipple, until the taller man pants with sheer pleasure. Sherlock throws his head back, the tendons in his neck tighten and stand out. He shuts his eyes, the more to _feel_ John.

John begins to kiss his way across the pale chest. He tastes the silky chest hairs, sparse, black curls that match the curls on the detective's head. He bends his head further to kiss his way down Sherlock's chest, down, down to the flat stomach.

Sherlock sighs. His hands tighten on John's shoulder blades. His eyes squeeze shut and he feels as if his heart is going to beat out of his chest.

John's fingers reach to stroke Sherlock's bulging erection. Sherlock groans out loud and drops his head. He opens his eyes to watch John Watson as he continues to stroke Sherlock's tight cock through the soft material of his slacks. Sherlock is so hard, that the merest touch of John's fingertips makes him gasp from the sweet pain of the friction.

John's fingers work their magic with the buttons, zipper and snaps of Sherlock's' designer slacks, then they, too—nearly - fall to the floor. They catch on the taller man's growing erection, and John smiles and has to tug gently until the material – at last, at last, falls to the floor. The detective quickly steps out of them and they are kicked away to lie atop the dark blue shirt. John bends and pulls off the dark silk pants, then the socks, one by one.

Naked now, Sherlock stands in front of his lover, head bowed, and eyes shut tight. He wants - oh, he needs - to rediscover the feel of John's hands on his bare skin.

He came so close to losing this forever. So close to losing John, to losing this sweet intimacy, the overwhelming heartache that John Watson calls up in his chest each time they come together. He shuts his eyes – and becomes lost in John.

John laughs gently. His own breath comes in gasps but he does nothing to remove his clothing. He is determined to give Sherlock this. To give back some of the incredible caring he has received at the detective's hands – and heart. To give Sherlock pleasure and in giving, hopefully, to erase a little of the pain he has caused this man - this wonderful, idiotic man he loves so much it hurts.

John reaches around Sherlock, removes the pillow from the flat edge of the tub, and drops it on the floor in front of the detective. He goes slowly to his knees, mindful of the line of stitching along his thigh. The detective starts to protest – and John shushes him.

He feels a slight pull as he slowly, slowly lowers himself down Sherlock's long body. He grasps Sherlock's lean hips, then lets his hands slide, slide downward along the detective's muscled legs – _swimmers legs,_ thinks John, not for the first time.

At last, he is where he most wants to be. And it's good. It's so good. The slight pull along his thigh muscles is good. The reminder that he has spent three weeks in bed – sometimes restrained – no longer, thank God … the blessed movement of his own muscles as he moves to his knees there in front of Sherlock … all of these things remind John that he is alive.

Alive. And with Sherlock. And Sherlock has told him he loves him. Over and over and over again. He has breathed the word love into the doctor's skin. Impressed it into his muscles. Tasted it onto the corners of his eyes, his mouth, his lips, and even kissed it into the top of his head. Sherlock has whispered his love into John's very soul –

John intends to return the favor.

Grasping Sherlock below the knees, John Watson begins to whisper.

"Sherlock Holmes, I love you." He licks the underside of Sherlock's cock, laves the darkening skin with his tongue. The taller man tosses his head back and nearly sobs with pleasure.

"Sherlock Holmes, I love you." John takes Sherlock's cock in one hand and tilts it out gently so he can lick his way up the length to the underside of the glans. Here he pauses.

"Sherlock Holmes, I love you." He circles the glans with his tongue – and Sherlock's hands tighten on Johns' shoulders.

"John – God, John…." The detective grits his teeth and pants - so as to delay the inevitable - for as long as possible.

John laughs. He encircles the head of Sherlock's cock with his tongue, his eyes shut tight to better taste his lover. He wraps his arms around Sherlock's arse and pulls the other man toward him slightly. Sherlock obligingly tilts his pelvis forward.

John gasps and begins to frantically lick, to lave, to tease, to encircle – to taste the man he loves. Sherlock tastes like musk and wool and sweat and the scent of the spicy soap he used in the shower earlier that day. He tastes like home. He tastes like Sherlock.

"John … John!"

John doesn't answer. He takes Sherlock's cock in his mouth, as deeply as it will go.

And begins to suck. The detective groans over and over again.

It doesn't take long.

All of the weeks of pain, of loss, of aching loneliness, of exhaustion, of fear, and then of overwhelming love for John Watson, coalesce in one blinding orgasm and Sherlock throws back his head and cries out.

John swallows until his eyes stream. Then he tilts his head back to look up at his love - and smiles gently.

Sherlock looks down to meet John's dark gaze - and his heart tumbles in his chest. He reaches for John's hands and pulls his Army doctor to his feet. They remain entwined in each other for quite some time.

Afterward, they both find that one determined doctor and one lanky, very bendy detective can fit very nicely in one rather confining hospital bed.

The hot bath is left for another day.

"Sherlock?"

"Yes, John."

"That thing you did -?"

Small laugh. "Which thing, John?"

"That thing – the other night? The night you proposed?

"Oh, _that_ thing, John…yes?"

"Do it again, Sherlock."

"John, I thought you'd never ask. Budge over a bit ... "

OooOooO

**Early Morning – John Watson's hospital room – St. Anne's**

Sherlock awakens, there where he has fallen asleep in the chair beside John's bed.

He glances at his watch. 6:00. One hour before morning rounds, two hours before John's breakfast tray, and three hours before he, Doctor Merit and John have a very long talk indeed. Merit has promised the results of John's tests – save the one he has to have that morning – as well as all of the records, files and report information Sherlock demanded the previous afternoon.

Presumably, Mycroft will be present – if he can get away from preventing the next war – or starting it.

This is also the day that John will be moved to the cardio wing until better "accommodations" can be found at the Holmes estate. Sherlock knows that Mycroft – and Mummy – are actively engaged in finding the necessary medical personnel that must be on hand before John is moved. Including a psychological counselor.

With any luck, they can all get the hell out of St. Anne's by the weekend. Sherlock is more than ready to leave the hospital, even if it means moving back into the Holmes mansion.

The detective sighs as he grapples with all of the logistics in caring for his partner. He wants the doctor to sleep as long as possible before this day begins.

He stands up, stretches, and then bends over John Watson to listen to his breathing.

Slow and steady. He watches John for a minute or two, then glances at his watch again. Maybe he can find some hot tea in this place.

And now for the part Sherlock hates. Carefully, gently, without waking John, he slips the padded cuffs around John's wrists to restrain his movements, should he wake and go into another attack. He will remove the hateful things as soon as he returns.

He crosses to open the door and exchanges a few words with the man who stands there. At the same time, Sherlock glances around for the second agent.

"Loo," Mycroft's man says. Sherlock nods.

The agent comes into John's room to stand watch while Sherlock goes in search of hot tea.

The tall figure comes the rest of the way into John's room – then pushes the door closed in order to keep out the light from the hallway. He glances around once, then quickly crosses the room to stand over the doctor's bed.

He watches the doctor's sleeping form for a few seconds. The muted light behind the hospital bed lends just enough light so that he can easily see John Watson's features.

John is restless. But he does not awaken at the intrusion.

The doctor's arms are carefully tied – temporarily - to the railing of the bed until Sherlock returns. No one is taking any chances with a repeat of the events of the day before.

The man removes something from his jacket pocket, then bends over the doctor's body.

A minute later, he lets himself out of the room to nod at the other agent, who has just returned. He points toward the restrooms. The other agent nods, and moves to stand just inside the door of John's room.

Unnoticed, John shifts around in his bed, mildly agitated. His breath comes in short gasps now. He tries to move his wrists, but cannot. His sleeping mind recognizes the familiar tug and pull – and immediately stops trying to fight the restraints.

After a minute or two, his breathing slows down. His body goes limp in his bed.

And John Watson smiles in his sleep.

OooOooO

Sherlock walks quickly down the hallway toward John's room. He carries a Styrofoam cup full of what the hospital laughingly refers to as hot tea. John would be appalled.

"Mr. Holmes?" He stops, turns at the sound of Lori Hansen's voice.

She hurries toward him from the elevator, her purse and coat slung over one arm.

"Good morning, Mr. Holmes."

"Ms. Hansen," says the detective. "John is sleeping. It's still quite early and I don't want him to be –"

She shakes her head vigorously. "No. I don't want to disturb him either. But his doctor, Doctor Merit, called me yesterday and said you wanted to see me today. I came as quickly as I could."

Sherlock sighs. He glances down the hall where he can now see four agents who stand outside John's room, comparing notes. Apparently, it is time for the changing of the guard. Shifting the hot tea to his other hand, he looks at his watch again.

"John will be awake in about thirty minutes. They wake him quite early to take blood samples and check his vitals." He looks tiredly at her.

"Come on. I want to check on John. Then we can sit in the waiting area for a few minutes. He is well guarded."

As they stand there, two of Mycroft's agents walk past them toward the elevator.

Sherlock pays no attention to them as they leave, other than to nod curtly at them as they walk quickly by him. They both nod back. Presumably, they want to go home and get some sleep.

Lori looks down the hall toward John's room, notes that one man stands guard and one has just gone inside John's room.

She frowns, then looks up at Sherlock. Her eyes beg the question.

He looks down at her and wonders how much to tell her. Well, she'll know all of it soon enough.

"We had an – incident. You might as well know, John is under constant surveillance since his last attack yesterday afternoon."

He murmurs this information in his deep baritone. She listens, heart sick. He very pointedly does not use the term 'suicide watch.' But she is a trained medical professional and she knows what he is not saying. Her eyes widen, then fill with sadness. She does not know what to say to the detective.

He smiles grimly and begins to walk toward John's room She follows at his side, thoughtful and quiet.

At the door of John's room, Sherlock nods at the man who stands guard, then pushes the door open quietly to go in to check on John. The second agent, who stands just inside, his hands clasped in front of him, nods curtly at Sherlock, then leaves the room.

He takes up his position immediately outside and to the right of the door.

Lori follows the detective slowly.

Sherlock puts his tea down on the table next to John's bed, then bends over his partner's sleeping form.

He sighs. John hums in his sleep. A low sound, barely noticeable, but a hum nevertheless. Sherlock glances up at Lori Hansen, who has come to stand next to John's bed. He smiles at her.

She glances down at the doctor - and her eyes widen. Hurriedly, she deposits her coat and purse on the divan behind her, then bends over to look at John's tired face again.

Lori raises her head to look straight into Sherlock's eyes.

"Something is wrong, Mr. Holmes. This isn't – right." She glances at the light switch behind John's bed, then leans over and clicks on the overhead light.

John does not stir in the bright light. But he continues to make the low humming noise. In his sleep, he smiles. Sherlock's eyebrows raise at that smile, the smile that is not - quite - John.

Lori stands on the opposite side of Johns' bed, directly across from Sherlock. She brushes her hand over John's forehead, runs her fingers through the dark spikes, feels – and notes - how his skin is flushed, as if with fever.

She lifts his wrist, counts the beats. She shakes her head, alarmed now.

Sherlock, concerned, watches her closely. "Ms. Hansen – "

She looks at John's wrists, tied to the railing of the bed and winces.

Lori glances up at Sherlock quickly. "During the – incident in question - was Doctor Watson given any medication?"

He nods, very concerned now. "Yes, an injection."

"Direct into the vein or in the IV –"

"Direct. There was no time for anything else."

He stares at her. She looks steadily at him, her eyes wide now. He can see her pupils react at the news.

"Mr. Holmes, do you know how many 'direct injections' Doctor Watson has had since he has been here in St. Anne's?"

Sherlock glances at John's sleeping form, than back at Lori.

"Just the one. The nurses have always used the IV's to give him his medication. What is it, Ms. Hansen?"

She uses one slim hand to point at John's left arm in its restraints. He can clearly see the small injection site, just a pinprick really. He nods. Yes, that was the arm and that was the injection site.

She then leans over and points toward John's right arm. Sherlock reaches down and gently turns John's arm slightly in the restraints, so he can see it more clearly. John does not react to his touch. There in the crook of John's elbow, is another pinprick, and this one shows a tiny drop of blood that has welled up, spilled out and begun to dry on the skin.

Finally, she thumbs one of John's eyes open – the pupil is nearly blown black.

He does not react to her touch.

They both look at each other, eyes wide with understanding – and horror.

"Mr. Holmes – Doctor Watson shows all the evidence of having been injected with Doctor Franks' drug."

She glances down at the sleeping doctor, who continues to hum – and smile – in his sleep.

"I've seen this many times. We don't know how much he was given. We've got to get him –"

But Sherlock is already out the door, his mobile phone out and in his hand; he frantically pushes buttons as he rushes to the nurse's station, demands they call Doctor Merit, "any fucking doctor." He hollers for a nurse, any nurse to "get the hell into John's room. Now!"

Then he turns toward Mycroft's two agents – and before they can react, he drops the phone and shoves the agent who was in John's room up against the wall, his forearm presses the man's throat and head back, choking off his air supply. The man scrabbles for purchase as his feet actually leave the floor.

Behind him, at the nurse's desk, pandemonium reigns.

"Call Scotland Yard – Inspector Lestrade!" he shouts over his shoulder. "And get a doctor and medical team into Doctor Watson's room stat!"

Sherlock's eyes narrow – and the blood roars through his head so loudly he momentarily cannot hear anyone, least of all Mycroft's second man shouting at him. He only has eyes for the man under his murderous gaze.

"You bastard – you were just in his room – you bloody bastard.— what in the name of fuck have you done!"

"Mr. Holmes!"

The second agent acts to pull Sherlock off the first man but the detective just shoves him back. They grapple at the doorway, all the while the first agent's face is growing crimson. He claws at his neck.

"Mr. Holmes, you **_will_** stand down, Sir."

Sherlock turns his head – and stares into the muzzle of a Walter PPK in the hands of Mycroft's second man. His eyes narrow. Slowly, he releases his hold on the first man and stands back, his hands up and out to his side.

It is all he can do to _not_ punch them both in the face. Instead, he stares murderously from one to the other of them.

The first man coughs, rubs his throat and stares at Sherlock as if he's lost his mind.

From the floor where Sherlock's mobile has fallen, he can hear his brother Mycroft as he shouts at him.

For a moment, no one moves. Then Sherlock glances down at his phone on the floor.

The first man bends over, picks it up, listens, and then nods. "Sir, this is Enders. Yes, your brother – Mr. Holmes - is standing right here."

He holds the mobile up to Sherlock's ear. Sherlock speaks to Mycroft, still holds his hands open. The second man doesn't move. He is in a shooter's stance and both hands are firmly wrapped around the Walther – still aimed at Sherlock Holmes.

"Mycroft? One of your bloody agents just injected John – no, fuck it, we don't know! Hansen thinks its Franks' drug. Yes. They're both gone now. Night shift."

The two men at the door listen to his conversation with their superior, their eyes widen, and then the first man pulls out his own mobile as dual text chimes sound from his pocket and his partner's.

He reads the screen, incredulous. Then he nods curtly at his partner.

The second man does not lower the Walther; eyes narrowed, he continues to stare at Sherlock the entire time. Sherlock doesn't move but keeps his hands out to his side.

The first agent lowers the phone from Sherlock's ear, listens, then says, "Sir – what action?

"We don't know yet what Doctor Watson has been injected with. No sir. Just Mr. Holmes' statement. Yes sir. Lynn and West. No sir, never worked with either one of them before."

He glances toward John's door, which is open. He can just see Lori Hansen as she stands next to John's bedside.

"Yes sir. Ms. Hansen is here also. Sir? Yes sir." He lowers the phone, pockets it.

He moves around Sherlock, then begins to methodically check the detective for weapons, who allows it, and never takes his eyes off Mycroft's second agent. The two of them stand there and stare murder at each other, while the first man pats down Sherlock's legs, waist, back, bum, thighs. He moves around in front of the detective. Front pockets, shirt, waist, legs, ankles.

Satisfied, he stands back, nods at the second man. Mycroft's agent slowly lowers and re-holsters his gun.

The first man goes around to stand next to his partner, but a few feet apart.

He looks at Sherlock. "Mr. Holmes, you want to tell me what just happened?" At the same time, he hands Sherlock's mobile back to him.

Sherlock Holmes begins to speak – loudly.

A few feet away, Lori stands watch over John's body and listens as he continues to hum quietly to himself. At one point, he laughs. She winces, sick to her stomach now.

Tears well up in her dark eyes and then she begins to shake - with total unmitigated, overwhelming anger.

Sherlock comes back into the room, followed closely by two nurses – who pull a crash cart with them. They rush to John Watson's bedside.

Mycroft's men both come into the room behind him and separate to watch the proceedings. They both have their phones in their hands and are sending texts.

Lori stands back out of everyone's way and stares at Sherlock. He looks back at her and sees the same determination in the little nurse that helped save John's life.

"Those fucking wankers," she breathes.

Sherlock couldn't agree more.

OooOooO

Agent Lynn awakens out of a sound sleep – to find three of his fellow agents in his bedroom. They all stare at him curiously . One of them steps forward – and that is all he remembers for a very, very long time.

OooOooO

"Agent Lynn. Agent Lynn! Lynn! Wake up. There's a good chap."

Lynn opens his eyes with reluctance. He was having the most relaxing dream.

He looks around – and his eyes widen.

"Agent Lynn, we regret the circumstances, but I want you to know that you have been totally cleared in this unfortunate matter."

At that, Mycroft Holmes, steps out from the shadows in the back of the darkened conference room. He walks up to stand more or less in front of Lynn, who realizes he is sitting in a comfortable, nicely padded chair in said conference room. He stares at the grey marbled surface of the table in front of him. He blinks his itching eyes to try to get his bearings.

Someone puts a glass of water in front of him and a couple of white tablets.

Lynn stares at the two tablets, then looks up at his superior. _Oh yes_ , he remembers now.

"Am I clean?" he whispers.

His hands shake a little as he picks up the two pills.

"Yes, Agent Lynn and thank you, again, for your cooperation in this incident," says Mycroft Holmes dryly.

"No problem." Lynn sighs, drops his head for a moment. Then he looks up again.

"Doctor Watson? How is he, sir?"

Mycroft Holmes sighs. "He still hasn't come out of it. But we hope for the best, Agent Lynn, we hope for the best."

Lynn nods. He picks up the water glass to take the pills. But his hands shake so much, he can barely hold the glass.

Mycroft leans over, takes the glass out of his shaking hands, and tilts it so Lynn can sip and swallow the two tablets.

"Want to hear the tape?"

Lynn nods his thanks for the water. Looks up – "Yes sir, I do."

"Good man. Enders?"

Agent Enders, one of the men who stood guard outside John's door earlier that morning, steps up, places a small digital recorder on the table in front of Lynn and presses Play.

Lynn's own voice comes back at him.

"Sir – I want you to use it on me. Please. I want – no - I _need_ to clear my name in this."

Mycroft Holmes voice: "It can be – unpleasant."

His voice: "I don't much care at this point. I have to know. Please, sir."

Mycroft Holmes: "Very well, Agent Lynn. I applaud your willingness to be of help."'

Lynn listens to the rest of the tape in silence with raised eyebrows.

When it comes to an end, Enders picks up the recorder, pockets it.

Agent Lynn looks from Enders to Mycroft. He awaits his judgment.

Mycroft looks at him. "Agent Lynn, you are cleared for active duty."

Lynn sighs, bows his head. He nods. "Thank you, Sir."

As Mycroft leaves the room he says dryly: "You might want to take the next day off – just sleep it off, Lynn. That's the only thing that works. And I find an iced Diet Coke can also be of great help."

He walks out of the conference room, twirling his umbrella.

Lynn looks at Enders, raises an eyebrow.

Enders just smiles tightly. "Yes, we've used it on him, too. He insisted. Wanted to know what it felt like."

Lynn's eyes widen. He stares at the door that has just closed after Mycroft Holmes.

"Is he –"

"Always like this? Yup. Here, wipe your face. I'll get you that Diet Coke. He wasn't kidding. It really helps."

Lynn just nods. Shuts his eyes in total relief.

OooOooO

The warehouse is just a typical warehouse – extremely large, filled with packing boxes, crates - with cold fluorescent lights so high up, they don't cast enough light to see properly. This causes objects – and people who stand under them – to be thrown into high relief. It casts shadows.

Very convenient shadows.

And oh my god, it is freaking cold.

The man comes around slowly. He sits in what seems to be an ordinary conference room chair, his arms bound behind him. Plastic zip ties hold his legs together and bind his ankles to the chair's bottom rail.

He glances around, his eyes widen. He can just see a tall figure off to his side, who stands more or less in shadow.

He shakes his head once, winces, and then vows not to repeat his mistake.

The figure does not move. But the voice – _oh, the voice_.

"Now we can begin."

He notes that two men stand in front of him. One moves immediately in front of him, then yanks his hair to tilt his head to an angle. He sees the hypo but before he can protest, the needle slips under the skin of his neck directly into his carotid artery.

The second man slips a cuff around his right wrist, then connects small clips to his fingers. He watches as the cuff is stretched along its cord to connect to the box on the table in front of him. The same man then unbuttons his shirt, and tapes several small discs to his chest, one of them directly over his heart. Another disc is placed over the pulse point of his neck.

His mouth is taped; he can only make feral noises. Sweat pools along his hairline and begins to slowly drip down the side of his face. He yanks at his bonds, to no avail.

A young woman walks toward him from the shadows. She sits down at the small table, opens a laptop computer. She glances at the two smaller boxes in front of her, then quickly sets up a small portable printer.

He watches her, wide-eyed. He tries to move around to get her attention.

She totally ignores him.

He tries to talk, to move, to do anything to get out of his restraints but he is rapidly becoming dizzy, and his head falls forward on his chest.

OooOooO

The dizziness passes off. Someone rips the tape off his mouth.

Someone else begins to ask questions.

He refuses to answer. Gives no names.

Another hypo in the neck. They tape his mouth. And the dizziness returns.

OooOooO

The dizziness passes off and he re-awakens. He has no idea how many times this scenario has been repeated. He is aware – barely – that several of his fellow agents stand around him; but no one speaks to him. They all just watch him.

He frowns.

Someone comes up and rips the tape off his mouth. He groans, licks his dry lips. Someone else begins to ask him questions.

"Go to fucking hell," he tells them.

Deep sigh. "You are going to have to do much better than that, Mr. West."

Then…"Shall we begin again?"

OooOooO

Much, much later….

"Moriarty! Moriarty? James Moriarty?" His voice sounds drunk, incredulous.

"That's what you think this is about? That little _pathetic_ excuse for a criminal?"

He shakes his head and drops of sweat dislodge from his brow. They fall into his eyes, where they sting and cloud his vision.

"Dear God in heaven! You don't know what's going on in your own organization, you tosser!"

On the computer monitor, lovely little waving lines appear, they bob up and down, like waves out at sea. A strip of paper spirals out from the printer. She continues to ignore his rants.

"Honest to God! Moriarty? Give me a fucking break! You want to know, Mr. High and Mighty Mycroft Holmes? You want to really know what is happening here?"

Mycroft comes out of the shadows and stands in front of his erstwhile agent. He stares at him curiously, as if he were something nasty on the bottom of his shoe.

"What we want to know, Mr. West, is why you injected Doctor Watson and what you injected him with."

"That stupid drug, you incredible arse hole! The one we confiscated at the Wellington from that little twerps' laboratory." His voice raises, starts to ramble as his countenance becomes flushed. "Laboratory, my God! What a fucking JOKE!"

He raises his head to stare straight at Mycroft.

"You're hung up on the wrong things here, Mister Mycroft Holmes."

He looks around at the few people he can see, stares into the shadows at the ones he cannot see. But he knows they are there.

"Great fucking GOD, you are all such imbeciles." He glares at the other people, men and women, who stand back from him. Then he looks straight at Mycroft.

"You think that all of this is about some little queer, messed up Army doctor? God in heaven, wake up, you idiots. Just wake the hell up!"

He shakes his head to dislodge some of the sweat, then briefly closes his eyes. His breath comes in deep gasps now.

"It's you, you arsehole! You and all of your bloody-minded people. The reason our country is in trouble is _you,_ Mycroft Holmes! Honest to God, does her Majesty even know – does the Queen, does Parliament, does anyone _know_ that our country is being run by queers and madmen, high and mighty intellectuals who don't know their arses from a hole in the ground?"

He shakes his head and looks around wildly.

In front of him, she pushes a button and a narrow strip of paper begins to spiral down from the portable printer. She ignores his rants and watches her computer screen.

He stares at the strip of paper as it lengthens, then begins to spiral toward the warehouse floor.

God, it is just so freaking cold here.

West begins to laugh bitterly.

"Jesus! I just – I don't know. I really don't know how you all even function. Is there one brain between all of you?"

He looks around again, focuses on Agent Enders, his day relief at John Watson's room.

"This is just the beginning, the tip of the iceberg, you complete imbeciles. You honestly think that one washed up little queer of an Army doctor is worth all this?"

He shouts the vindictive at them, but most of all at Mycroft Holmes.

"You stupid, fucking arsehole! You and your mad little brother – the great Sherlock Holmes. The fucking Holmes brothers! Honest to God, someone has to take a stand - someone has to get this country back on track."

He lets his head fall toward his chest, as he momentarily becomes so dizzy he cannot hold it up any longer. He takes a deep breath. He raises his head and stares at Mycroft.

"And a few of us have vowed to make that happen! As for that pathetic excuse for a doctor – a doctor, for gods sakes! He's nothing but your little brother's gay lover. Honest to God, a former Captain in her Majesty's Army ... looks like they'll let just anyone in nowadays, even queers and pansies!"

It is incredibly quiet there in that warehouse. The only sounds come from her small printer, the tiny whisper as paper spirals downward into a small bin, and his rants, as they grow wilder by the moment.

"You think this is about John Watson? You unbelievable idiot. This goes far deeper than you can ever imagine. You cannot fathom how deep this goes! How fucking high this goes! Moriarty! God in heaven! Someone has got to let them know – someone has got to tell her Majesty, the fucking people of England, who is running the whole bloody show!"

He looks at Mycroft, who hasn't moved.

"This isn't about fucking with John Watson, the little pansy. That was all my idea. This goes way beyond that. Watson? I saw my chance and took it. He was just the icing on the cake. With any luck, that fucking drug has killed him by now!"

West looks around now, desperate for someone, anyone to agree with him ... to just talk to him.

"Jesus fucking God! You spend this country's money guarding one washed-up excuse for a Captain so he and his mad boyfriend can get it on in a hospital room, for gods sakes! Are you insane? Is everyone here insane? Am I the only one who SEES this!"

He shakes his head now and starts to laugh a little.

"Honest to God! I don't know what's worse – having to watch their bloody room all night so they can do whatever filth like them do with each other – or looking at your stupid pathetic faces!"

West straightens up. Looks directly into Mycroft Holmes' eyes. He flinches at what he sees there. His eyes widen more, if that were possible. His breath comes in harsh gasps now.

"Mister Mycroft Holmes … Mister Mycroft-bloody-Holmes. The Ice Man…you have no idea what is about to hit you – to hit all of you. You have no freaking idea. I almost feel sorry for you. You and your entire organization, the whole freaking show, is about to be taken down – from the inside, I might add, from the fucking ** _inside_** Mister Holmes!"

He shakes his head and his voice drops to a whisper now. "Almost … almost feel sorry for you."

She looks up from her monitor to Agent Enders and nods.

"He's repeating himself now, sir. Nothing new for the past two hours."

"Right."

Enders steps up to West, who is nearly blubbering now, and presses a fresh strip of duct tape over his mouth.

She looks up from the tape.

"He's empty, Sir. We're not going to get anything else out of him."

Mycroft sighs. "I was afraid of that."

He glances around at his people who stand around him.

"Agent Enders, I find I have come out without my weapon. May I borrow yours? You will, of course, be issued a new one immediately so this action today cannot be traced to you at any time in the future."

Enders shakes his head. 'No sir. No. That's not the way this is going to go."

He waves at the other men and women who stand in the shadows, waiting.

"We drew lots, Sir, and I won. This privilege is mine, Mr. Holmes. Not only that, Sir, I would count it as an honor, as well."

Mycroft smiles grimly but continues to hold out his hand. "Your weapon, please, Agent Enders."

"No Sir. This is my responsibility. It happened on my watch and you need to just walk away from this, Mr. Holmes. Please. Just let me handle this. Me and my team."

Mycroft smiles grimly into his face. "I refuse to ask my people to do anything I wouldn't do. And this is personal, Agent. I count Doctor John Watson as family."

Enders stares into Mycroft Holmes' eyes, then he sighs, removes his gun from the shoulder holster, makes sure the safety catch is on, then reverses it and hands it to Mycroft.

"Sir, what he said about Doctor Watson - the reason I volunteered for this detail is that Capt. John H. Watson saved my brother's life - over two years ago - in Afghanistan, Sir. My younger brother."

"Capt. Watson – Doctor Watson - ran into a firefight, Sir and literally carried Tony to safety. Got him out of the line of fire, patched him up and sent him home. And he and his wife now have two kids sir, twin boys, my nephews. None of that would have happened if it weren't for Capt. Watson's actions back there, Sir."

Mycroft takes the Walther PPK, hefts it in his hand.

Enders looks at him, hopefully, and nods. "I would count this as a personal honor, Sir," he repeats.

Mycroft smiles grimly. "Agent Enders, I understand your position and believe me, I appreciate it. And if - when - we flush out more of his compatriots, I will let you – all of you - take a hand, believe me. But this matter directly concerns my family and the safety of people who are dear to me."

Mycroft checks the safety, glances around.

"My dear, I need you to pack up your equipment and leave. You can prepare your report and please have it on my desk later today."

She nods, makes quick work of it, then pauses to glance at this man she works for.

"Sir. What Agent Enders said, well that goes for all of us, Sir. We all count it as an honor to not only work for you, but to help in any way if it will work to the benefit of Sherlock Holmes and Doctor Watson. I just thought you should know, Sir."

She picks up the small case and the laptop, turns and walks toward the waiting limousine, parked back in the shadows.

"Agent Enders, you do not have to stay. But I will need a cleaner crew –"

"No sir. I'm not leaving you here, Sir. I don't much care what you say. Sir."

Mycroft stares into Ender's eyes. Nods once.

"Very well. But please turn your back. At least you cannot be forced to testify that you had any hand in this – action."

He raises his voice slightly. "Please turn your backs."

Mycroft thumbs off the safety. Steps up to the man in the chair, who stares at him wild-eyed.

The shot, when it comes, sounds more like the pop of a champagne cork than an actual gun shot in that huge space.

Mycroft thumbs the safety back on. Hands the weapon back to his Agent.

"I'll wait here for the cleaning crew. They're on their way, Sir."

"Thank you, Agent Enders. I greatly appreciate your presence here."

"Yes Sir."

Mycroft looks at his other agents, who stand off to the side.

"I mean that for all of you. Your actions today have been – exemplary."

The agents all nod. At this exact moment in time, every man and woman who stands there would gladly lie down and die for this man. And count it an honor to do so.

Mycroft Holmes walks away, umbrella in hand. For once, he is not twirling it.

OooOooO

Sherlock looks up as his brother comes in to stand over John Watson's bed.

The doctor has not regained consciousness since the injection. But his vitals are strong and his heart tests have all come back negative – so far.

Mycroft stands there and looks down at John Watson's tired face. Then he glances at his brother, who sits at his side, fingers steepled under his chin.

"Is he going to be all right?"

Sherlock stirs, glances up at Mycroft. He shakes his head tiredly. "They don't know yet."

He looks up at his brother again. Mycroft recognizes the simmering anger that skims just below the surface of his brother's usual unruffled demeanor. "I just want to get him the hell out of here, the sooner the better."

Mycroft nods. "I think we can make that happen, Sherlock. How does tomorrow sound to you?"

Sherlock stands. For a moment, both Holmes brothers stand over John Watson's bed.

"Sherlock, this was not James Moriarty." He looks at his brother, who raises an eyebrow.

Mycroft nods. "There's a storm coming, little brother. And we need to be ready."

He prepares to leave.

Sherlock stares at his brother.

"Mycroft, before you leave, I want the tape." He holds out his hand.

Mycroft shakes his head. "No need, little brother. The 'situation' has been taken care of."

He starts to pick up his umbrella but Sherlock steps around the end of John's bed and blocks his progress.

"Damn it, Mycroft, I want the interrogation tape. I know you've got it."

The two of them stare at each other. Mycroft looks into his brother's eyes, then he sighs and reaches into the inner pocket of his suit. He drops the tiny memory stick in Sherlock's hands.

"Sherlock, as you listen to this filth, know this: the situation has been handled."

Mycroft looks at the sleeping doctor, then frowns and picks up his umbrella. He glances at his brother.

"Sherlock, there's an acid tab on that stick. One cup of water should suffice - "

"I think I know the drill by now, Mycroft."

"Good. That's good, Sherlock." He looks back. "I would never want John to hear that recording, little brother."

Sherlock looks at him grimly. "You don't have to worry about that, Mycroft."

"Excellent." He hesitates. "Sherlock, I think you should know that more than a half dozen of my people drew lots to – er – handle this situation."

He turns away, walks toward the door.

Sherlock frowns. "So who had the long straw?" he asks. He really wants to know.

His brother turns back to fix him with a tired smile. Then he shakes his head and turns away.

"I did," says Mycroft Holmes.

He walks out the door – and leaves Sherlock standing there in the dark of John Watson's hospital room in St. Anne's, staring after him.

OooOooO


	4. Chapter 4

**These characters in their current incarnation belong to the BBC and in their original incarnation to the estate of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, may his name be blessed!**

**THE BOYS OF BAKER STREET**

**CH. 4**

**WARNING: Angst; Child Abuse; Discussions of Sexual Mores; Language; Drug Use; Noncon restraint; Homophobic taunts; And one instance of direct violence against a perfectly innocent violin. If any of these things give you pause, please look away.**

**NOTE: This ongoing work is a Trilogy.  This is Book Two.   This work occasionally references events that occurred in Book One:  THERE BUT FOR THE GRACE OF JOHN WATSON. If you have not read that work, you might not "get" some of the references in this story. You might want to stop right here and go read GRACE first, then come back to BOYS.  Otherwise, your reading experience will not have the intensity that I labored so hard to create for you.**

OooOooO

When John Watson was six years old, his father hit him for the first time with an open fist.

When John was eight, his father – angry at some childish malfeasance – slowly, methodically and most viciously twisted his small wrist. And kept twisting.

He broke it.

The right one.

When John was eleven, he attempted to shield his older sister from one of his father's drunken rages, while their indifferent mother looked on. He was knocked into the wall of their flat for his trouble and suffered a mild concussion. No one took John to the doctor. Harry tried to help her brother, but she was just a child herself. A messed-up, totally confused, hurting child.

John does not remember the details of this beating, he only knows this: when he woke, he was lying on his small bed, confused, with a sickening headache, and double vision. Harry was doing the best she could for him with a cool wet cloth on the worst of his bruises. Harry cried. John lay there, hurting, watching his sister cry.

And he began to think.

Somehow, someway, he had managed to simply "go away" during the beating.

When he realized what must have happened – but not how - John hugged the memory to him like a warm blanket. He attempted the feat the next time he was the recipient of his father's "attentions."

He was only partially successful. But he was determined – even at this young age.

After remembering the feelings, reviewing the mental processes and emotions – mainly consisting of overwhelming fear, born of sickening apprehension, followed by a calming sort of 'blankness' - that had occurred just before he "went away," John was finally able to "go away" at will. He was only 11 when he learned this neat trick.

The next time it worked beautifully.

And the time after that.

And the time after that.

When John was 14, he ran away for the first – and only - time.

His father found him almost immediately.

John spent two days in intensive care – and another eight days in hospital from the beating he received at his father's hands. John has only one memory from this time. He remembers waking up in hospital and a very kind nurse bringing him ice cream. She was crying. He wondered if he had had his tonsils removed again. Could tonsils grow back? He did not know. But he really liked the ice cream. Then he went to "sleep" again.

It was after this particular "incident" – and its aftermath - that finally – FINALLY – someone noticed. John's attending physician looked over John's x-rays; sent for his medical file, including x-rays taken when John was very little, and promptly sent Social Services to John's home. John and his sister were removed from their parent's care. They were placed with foster services and later with a surviving Aunt. Six months afterward, John's father died from complications of the liver. His (and Harry's) Mum died two years later.

John was only 16 years old when he and Harry were orphaned. By that time, Harry was experimenting with every phase of her young life, including alcohol and sex.

After his hospital stay, John never had real need to "go into the silence," again. Not as a child. Or as a teen. However, he sometimes did - just because he could. Always at night, when he was in bed, when his abnormal stillness would not be noted. And only occasionally, just to keep his hand in, so to speak.

He showed Harry how he did this trick once – only once. When he awoke, she was white-faced and shaking. Harry didn't speak to him for two days after that. He never showed her again or referred to it in any way, shape or fashion after that.

Over time, John learned to modify this "trick." He could go away completely in his mind – or remain present, become utterly still, remain focused on the job at hand (usually his schoolwork,) still be in the world, albeit not directly a part of it. In short, he learned how to develop tunnel vision. When needed. Only when needed.

It was of tremendous help when testing for levels at school – and later at Uni.

Years later, John took this ability with him to Afghanistan, where he put it to most excellent use.

What many people do not know – how could they? – and Sherlock Holmes is no exception in this – what most people do not know is this: how John Hamish Watson turned out to be a relatively well-adjusted adult . Despite years of living in a violent household, years of wondering when his parent would next physically harm him and how badly, years of trying to desperately get the attention of an adult – any adult – to get help, to no avail, despite all of this: John became a most exemplary soldier and a damn good doctor and battle surgeon.

And a trusted, dependable and loyal friend.

John does not know himself, why he is more or less, "normal." He tries not to dwell on it.

When John gives any thought at all to this paradox, he supposes that Harry took the brunt of his beatings in some strange way. As if, by always being the looker-on, her soul had been damaged to the point that she no longer knew which end was up. This led to confusion on her part – confusion over her sexual orientation, confusion over her relationship with her brother, confusion over how she led her life in general. And more than a little guilt when she thought back on all the beatings John had taken, while she basically looked on. That is when the drinking began.

As for John Watson, he was always a good student at school and later put himself through Uni on a scholarship. He joined the Army – which trained him to be a doctor (trained at Bart's) and a soldier. Afterwards, he was patted on the head, told he was going to make a most excellent Army doctor and he was sent off to Afghanistan. To fight. To heal. To serve.

John felt he had died and gone to heaven.

John was very, very good at both these things – healing and fighting. His superiors frequently told him so.

It was the first time in John's life that anyone had told him he was good at anything.

John was determined to excel at his new responsibilities. His skills as a battle surgeon were never called into question.

Same thing could be said about his skills as a soldier.

John's extraordinary abilities were instantly recognized by his superiors and he advanced to the rank of Captain in a relatively short period of time. He soon had people put under his command. When necessary, he fought alongside them all, male and female. He was prepared to die with them or for them, made no difference to John.

It should be said, that regarding these young doctors / soldiers, Captain John Watson made no distinction based on gender when it came to his comrades in arms.

Ditto for his sexual partners.

To John, sex is an utterly lovely way to spend one's time. John was (and is) always a most caring and considerate lover, responsive to his partners' needs and desires. No one, not one single individual on three continents, in all the years that John experimented with sex beginning at Uni, continuing through his Army years, in darkened barracks, in the back seats of jeeps, in hotels, hostels, flats, train cars - no one ever complained about the treatment they received at John Watson's hands in bed – or wherever he and his partners ended up. (An actual bed not always being an option.)

John has had lovers on three continents, male and female, but only two that stick in his long-term memory. Ronnie with her amazing auburn hair and laughing green eyes. And Drew. John supposed he loved Drew, if he had ever actually been in love with anyone in his short life. Drew died one year after he and John became flatmates and an "official" couple. Before the Army. Before Afghanistan – and the bullet. Long before Sherlock.

John came home from medical school one day to a terrifying and final phone message: Drew was dead. As the Beatles song goes, "he blew his mind out in a car." Only in Drew's case, someone else –not Drew – hadn't noticed the light had changed.

After the funeral, John never referred to Drew again. To anyone.

John went on to finish his medical training at Bart's and soon afterwards deployed for Afghanistan.

It was here, while operating under the most cruel conditions imaginable, that John's superiors recognized his rather unique ability to become totally focused on whatever task he was set.

When called on to perform surgery, in the midst of a firefight, in the heat of battle, John's actions became methodical, precise. His world narrowed down to his two hands, his medical equipment and the soul he was trying to save. John operated with scalpel, while protecting his patient with his sidearm. And always, always, remained utterly, totally focused on the job at hand.

While he was operating, doing his best under incredible circumstances, John Watson would carry on an unspoken, internal conversation with the great Mystery, wherein he talked to, pleaded and, yes, begged for the life he was trying to save.

He was never certain if Anyone was actually listening. But he continued to ask.

It should be repeated here that John Watson saw every one of his patients – and his fellow soldiers – as souls. They were never just bodies; bodies pierced by bullets, legs or arms blasted by mortars, failing organs, bleeding arteries, a spleen to be removed here, a concussion to be treated there.

No sir.

They were souls.

And John was hell bent and determined not to let Death have dominion.

(When John lost a soul, he felt a tiny bit of his own die, as well. He felt as if had failed. John took these failures with him when he was sent home – after the bullet. These perceived failures colored his future sense of self for quite a long time to come.)

In Afghanistan, when John was operating, that person, that soul under his hands was the only other human being on the planet that mattered. To John, the external sounds of war, the realities of combat, the screaming mortars, the stinging pellets that struck his face when a round hit too close, the noise, dust, heat and confusion, none of these things were distractions – he could not be swayed from the job he was called upon to do or the oaths he had taken.

He took the same intensity of purpose into battle with him when called upon to fight. With the same results. Totally utterly focused on the job. Totally, utterly focused on protecting the lives of those who served with and under him.

John Watson was willing to die for anyone at a moment's notice. And supremely happy with his ability to do so, if called upon. At last, at last, he was being allowed _to serve._

And then a sniper's bullet struck his left shoulder, left him temporarily shivering in shock while he lay in the brown dust there in the shadow of the armored carrier - and in one second took away his ability to be of service: as a surgeon, as a soldier.

John would later say that ounce or less of lead took away every single thing he had ever wanted in his young life (except Drew – he had already lost Drew.)

He was shipped home.

We will not speak of the dark days that followed. Those are detailed elsewhere.*

Or of the attempted suicide - an action, later deeply regretted by the doctor.

It was only after John was introduced to Sherlock Holmes, that he, again, made use of his ability to simply "walk into the silence."

Sherlock Holmes was introduced to this peculiar, and valuable, trait of John's soon after their legendary partnership began. After a particularly "physical" case, one that involved John taking an extremely active hand, John Watson went still where he stood at the sink in their kitchen; his eyes lost their focus, then he shut them entirely – in order to shut out all external stimuli.

And he was gone. For a few minutes. Gone. While Sherlock stood in the doorway and watched.

Puzzled at first, not understanding what was going on, Sherlock felt that—on these rare occasions (they were by no means that common) - John Watson was, mentally, a million miles away, and totally unreachable by the detective by any known means, short of taking hold of the man and giving him a good shaking. Which Sherlock never did. (But he thought about it.)

The first time this happened, it annoyed the detective no end. He hated a puzzle that he could not solve. And John Watson was the only never-ending puzzle that had ever entered Sherlock's life. One he was determined to solve one day.

The second time this happened, their relationship had progressed – and John's preternatural silence scared Sherlock to death.

Finally, finally, Sherlock deduced what John was doing. The doctor was reviewing his own immediate actions in the case that had just ended. He was, if you will, debriefing himself, playing a mental movie, over and over and over again until John was satisfied with his own actions. Once John completed this self-imposed review, he simply "came to," his eyes lost that far-away look - and he was John Watson again.

And Sherlock Holmes would give a tiny sigh of relief.

It did not take long for Sherlock to recognize the value that this trait of John's brought to their working relationship. And as it didn't happen that often, Sherlock didn't worry overmuch.

But on those few occasions when John would "go away" – well, it still made Sherlock uneasy.

As if one day, the doctor would simply not return to him again. Or, when returning, he wouldn't – quite – be the John Watson who had left.

Sherlock feared that day, the day that John didn't entirely, completely come back to him.

**_This day._ **

OooOooO

Sherlock Holmes stands next to John Watson's bedside, and waits. He looks out of John's window at the frozen landscape, his hands in the pockets of his trousers. His mental processes can best be described as fast, furious and methodical. He is running through calculations in his head, examining variables. Wishing John would wake up.

The doctor has become increasingly restless in the past hour, his blood pressure has finally risen somewhat and the detective has been told by both Dr. William Merit and by John's nurses that John should regain consciousness very soon.

Sherlock is becoming anxious, a condition he despises in himself. He wants – he needs – the doctor to wake up. To be himself. To become an active participant in his immediate care.

He needs to get them both the hell out of St. Anne's. _If John is not safe in a freaking hospital, for bloody sakes…_

And more than anything else, Sherlock needs to give his brain time to sort out this puzzle, this attack on John. And the implied attack upon the Holmes' brothers.

For this, he needs data. Data that, as of yet, his brother cannot give him.

This lack of information frustrates the detective no end.

He glances at the file folders that lie upon the small table next to John's bed. As good as his word, Doctor Merit's assistant has delivered every copy of John's medical records available, including his x-rays. Sherlock is quietly amazed that Merit has been able to obtain even John's early medical records, from when he was a child.

Sherlock has glanced through all of them, once. And he has questions. Questions that only John can answer, when he awakens, and with Merit present.

As he stands guard over John's bed, Sherlock replays the last ninety minutes over in his mind.

As soon as Mycroft leaves, Sherlock borrows a laptop from Dr. Merit, sits by John's side while he sleeps, and plugs in a pair of ear buds in order to listen to the recording Mycroft brought him. The recording of the interrogation of Mycroft's agent.

Sherlock listens to the entire session , every sickening word. He then coolly replays the tape. Once he has it committed to memory, the detective drops the memory stick into a ceramic cup he confiscates from the nurse's coffee station – one with St. Anne's logo on it – and then drops in the tiny acid tablet.

It doesn't take long – sixty seconds or less - for the stick to become a melted, wrinkled, mass of plastic, virtually unrecognizable. He rinses it in several cups of water so as to dilute the acid, and finally dumps it into the plastic bag in the bin in the restroom. He "accidentally" drops – and smashes – the cup in the presence of a nurse, apologizes for his clumsiness and dumps it, too, into the same bin. To be thorough, he drops the small bag into the larger bin when the pleasant cleaning woman comes in to check on John's room.

He then sits by John's bed, to watch the sleeping face of the only human being on the planet – save Mrs. Hudson – and once upon a time – his older brother – who has ever made him feel more than an automaton. (And that includes his own mother. Particularly his mother.)

Sherlock plays and replays the horrid confession in his memory.

At one point, while Sherlock mentally reviews the hated tape, John sighs and turns his head toward Sherlock in his sleep. Sherlock stares at the man who has saved his life countless times, not the latest of which was just three weeks ago when the doctor shot Sebastian Moran, there in the lower levels of the Wellington Museum. He examines the tired face of the man who is personally responsible for saving and protecting the lives of so many soldiers, men and women, and for sending them home to the safety of their families.

As he watches John, he thinks about the glimpses of John the doctor Sherlock saw that hateful day – the day John was taken. He remembers the gentleness in John's hands as he examined those patients, the care he showed them, the same consideration John always exhibits toward basically everyone in John's life. (We will not discuss the feelings that Anderson brings out in John when he is maligning a certain detective.)

He hears John's voice, tired and frustrated, after yet another late night phone session with Harriet Watson. He replays John's quiet pleading as he speaks with Harry on his cell when he thinks the detective is not listening. "Just tell me where you are. I'll come right now. Just tell me."

He again sees John's face, calm, determined, after John shoots a man to save his – Sherlock's life – a scant 24 hours after they meet for the first time.

He thinks of the innate kindness, the goodness, the professionalism and the concern that Doctor John Hamish Watson shows his patients and his friends. And he thinks of the frequent glimpses he has had of Capt. John Watson, the soldier, and of how he must have appeared to the men and women, those young doctors and soldiers, under his command.

As he watches John and waits, Sherlock recalls the day, months back, when he waited patiently for John to leave for the surgery. He immediately went to John's room, bent down to retrieve the wooden box from under John's bed and sat there on the edge of John's mattress, looking at the five medals that Capt. John H. Watson had been awarded for his actions in Afghanistan for bravery and courage under fire. In his remarkable eidetic memory, Sherlock again picks up and stares at the Victoria Cross, rubs it between his fingers.

He thinks of the John Watson he lives with on a day-to-day basis. He sees John's warm grin, as the doctor laughs at some idiocy of Sherlock's. John with his arms around Mrs. Hudson's shoulders, hugging her on her birthday – and presenting her with the slightly lopsided cake he baked in their tiny kitchen. He sees John's face and amused eyes when he has to virtually stand on tip toe to reach the detective's lips. And he sees, with a tightening of the groin, the unbelievable beauty of John's face when he pleasures Sherlock.

And he notes, again, how exhausted John has appeared to the detective these last few weeks since Sherlock got John back. He glances down at the doctor's features as he lies there in his hospital bed and sees again the confusion, the pain and the overwhelming anger at what has been done to him in Sherlock's name.

Then Sherlock thinks of the sick hatred, the absolute vitriol, the poisonous homophobic slurs against this extraordinary human being, this man of courage and love and compassion, captured on Mycroft's tape – and he bolts for the loo and vomits his breakfast into the toilet, repeatedly.

He rinses his mouth, stares at himself in the mirror and runs a slightly shaking hand through his curls.

His eyes tear up – and actually spill over. Sherlock stares at his reflection in confusion. It is the second time he can recall crying in his adult life. Furious with himself, as if showing weakness is a personal failure, he brushes his hand over his eyes.

As he stands there, his text bell chimes. Sherlock fishes the mobile out of his pocket and reads the text. His eyes widen.

**Do not return to 221B**

**Both flats destroyed.**

**Mrs. H fine.**

**Removed to safety.**

**Cameras show nothing.**

**Op Safehouse a GO.**

**Is he awake yet?**

**MH**

Incredulous, Sherlock reads the text twice. He acknowledges Mycroft's text with two words.

**Understood.**

**Soon.**

**SH**

He splashes his eyes – and goes back to John, his mind filling with anger.

OooOooO

Mycroft Holmes does not normally take a hand in this type of action – but this is personal.

He stands just inside the flat at 221 B Baker Street and glances around as Lestrade's people pour over the place, looking for data, cataloguing the damage.

He has already walked through Mrs. Hudson's flat, after the good woman – and her visiting sister – have been sent away to have a most lovely Holiday somewhere warm and inviting – courtesy of the Holmes' family. After seeing the destruction of Mrs. Hudson's property, he has to steele himself to stride up the 17 steps to his brother's flat.

Now here, inside the flat, the reality is so much more than Lestrade indicated to him over the cell. The verbal description the DI gave him does not do it justice.

He cannot wrap his mind around the fact that his surveillance cameras show nothing. No visitor to Baker Street, no pizza delivery man, no casual passerby requesting to use a phone. No one. Nothing.

This makes Mycroft angry. Incredibly, seethingly angry.

None of Lestrade's team notes this anger. But Lestrade sees how Mycroft's eyes narrow. He hears the utter ice in his voice.

Most of Lestrade's officers ignore the elder Holmes brother altogether. But those Yarders who participated in the Rescue from the Wellington, as it is being called around the Yard, make it a point to come up to Mycroft to pass a word, to ask after Doctor Watson and Sherlock.

Each time, Mycroft acknowledges these small courtesies with a nod and a tired smile.

He assures them the good doctor is improving daily. He tells the lie with ease and grace. And they go away, feeling a little bit better.

Lestrade says nothing during these little interactions. But he is sick to his soul when he recalls John's attack, the one he witnessed the day he brought two new cases to Sherlock Holmes.

Mycroft stands to the side, so as not to impede the investigation and looks around, noting the efficiency of Lestrade's team. He frowns when he reads some of the slurs painted across the walls of the flat.

The sickening epithets spray painted on the outside of the 221 B's door should have been a tipoff. Here they are repeated over and over again, ad nauseum. The door is being attended to as he stands there. But the hateful words will remain in his memory for all time.

We will not repeat them here.

But the utter destruction, the wanton hatred it must have taken to do this – Mycroft shakes his head.

"Mycroft?" DI Lestrade comes up to the elder Holmes, stands by his side, hands in his pockets.

His people can handle this investigation, of course, but this is Mycroft – Sherlock's elder brother and basically the representation of the British government, standing here in 221B Baker Street.

Lestrade accepted long ago that where Mycroft Holmes was concerned, the rules go out the window. He saw that for himself a few weeks back, there in the lower levels of the Wellington.

"Detective Inspector," Mycroft acknowledges the DI. Both men stand close together, and watch Lestrade's team work.

"Sir?" Sally Donovan comes down the short hall from Sherlock's and John's room. She carries an unusual digital camera, reserved for crime scene photos. Well, this is most definitely a crime scene – a crime of utter hatred. At this point, no one can tell, yet, if anything has been taken.

Mycroft acknowledges the woman with a raised eyebrow. She stops in front of him and smiles grimly. She addresses both men.

"Mr. Holmes' room has been tossed, sir. The same filth, same epithets spray-painted everywhere – his clothes and those of Doctor Watson, the bed, walls, personal belongings – all ruined by the same paint sir, as far as we can tell. We will run tests, of course."

"Of course," says Lestrade. He tries to be cool about this, he really does. But it's damned difficult.

At his side, Mycroft Holmes says nothing. He stares from point to point in the main living area, committing the destruction to memory.

She pauses, frowns slightly as she watches the other officers go through the living area, taking photographs and notes. She turns back to address Mycroft directly. Lestrade listens carefully.

"Sirs, there is – was some sort of wooden box, a small chest really, in Mr. Holmes's bedroom. It has been broken into bits, splintered, as if someone took a hammer to it. It's the only thing in the room that's been treated like that – everything else has been splashed with paint or spray painted. But this box…" she holds up the camera, thumbs through several photos. She stops, nods, and holds the photo up for first Mycroft, then Lestrade to see.

Mycroft bends forward slightly. "Ah," he says. "Yes, that is the Moroccan case I gave my brother upon the occasion of his last birthday." He looks at the sheer destruction, frowns.

Lestrade says quietly, "You say this is the only item that –"

"Yes sir, in Mr. Holmes' room sir. We do not know, of course, if there was anything in the box. Nothing was found in the immediate area."

She glances up at both men, thinking hard. "Wait, Sir. One of the other – hold on."

She looks around, calls "Patricia."

Another member of Lestrade's team comes over, her manner quiet in the extreme.

"Patricia. Didn't you say there was another box of some sort in Doctor Watson's room that had also been smashed, not painted?"

The second officer nods. "That's right. We have it over here. It's already been photographed in place, so we brought it out for the Evidence team."

She walks over to the small coffee table in the living area, the one that Sherlock Holmes is in the habit of striding over when he can't be arsed to go around.

She reaches with a gloved hand and holds up a portion of the wooden box for both men to see – or rather, what is left of it. It, too, lies in several pieces, smashed nearly beyond recognition.

She reaches for a plastic evidence bag sitting next to it and holds it up for all to see.

"These were lying next to the pieces of the box. We found all of it, the box and the medals, sitting on the floor next to the bed. From the dust pattern under the bed, we assume that Doctor Watson was in the habit of keeping the box just under the bed, where he could reach it easily. "

She hands the small evidence bag first to Lestrade, who glances at it, then hands it to Mycroft, who takes it on his gloved palm.

"We assume these are Doctor Watson's medals from the Afghan campaign."

There are four medals in the bag, all of them obviously hammered or splintered by some heavy object. Four.

Mycroft frowns. Glances around. Looks at Lestrade, who raises an eyebrow. Mycroft pierces the woman with a glance.

"There is one medal missing here. Kindly look around for it. It should be here with the others."

"What medal is that, sir?" she asks curiously.

"The Victoria Cross. Capt. Watson was awarded the Victoria Cross. I do not see it here."

He waves a hand at what is left of John's sandalwood box – the beautifully decorated box he inherited from his material grandfather – a soldier and doctor in his own right.

"Please go through Doctor Watson's room carefully, under the bed, everywhere. Please see if you can find his Victoria Cross."

She glances first at Lestrade, who nods tiredly. "Yes sir. Certainly." She starts to turn away when Lestrade calls her back.

He addresses both of his people, mindful of the others that are still working away, close by.

"Are these incidents the only, er items of a personal or otherwise nature that have not been marred by paint?" Lestrade asks. Mycroft watches as Lestrade's team members glance at each other, frown.

"I can answer that, Sir." Anderson comes up to Mycroft and Lestrade . He holds something in his gloved hands. He directly addresses Lestrade, but looks at Mycroft while doing so.

"Detective Inspector, as far as any of us can ascertain, there are only four items in the entire flat that have been destroyed in this fashion, possibly with a hammer, if you count Doctor Watson's medals as one. Every other available inch has been spray-painted, the larger areas most often with the same, er, slurs."

He holds out an object that lies across both of his two gloved hands. Lestrade gives a quick intake of breath.

Mycroft raises an eyebrow, angered beyond belief now.

It is Sherlock's Stradivarius – totally, utterly splintered, destroyed beyond repair.

"We cannot locate the bow," says Anderson.

Mycroft frowns, nods at Lestrade, glances once more around the flat, turns and leaves.

Lestrade and Anderson glance at each other.

"Hell to pay for someone," Anderson murmurs. Sally and Patricia nod, then get back to work.

DI Lestrade stands there, frowns at the destruction. His mind races.

OooOooO

By the time he reaches John's bed, approximately four seconds later, the detective's eyes narrow with seething anger over the text he has just received from Mycroft. Mycroft must be in a situation where having a conversation would be awkward. He knows his brother prefers to call rather than text. He frowns, as two seconds later, he stands over John's unconscious body. The anger has now become a cold, calculating resolve.

He studies John Watson's unconscious restless form, considers for a moment, then throws caution out the window. Sherlock addresses the sleeping doctor.

"Wake up, John. I need you to wake up NOW."

John Watson's head turns from the side, toward the detective's voice. He frowns in his sleep.

"John. John Watson. Wake up. **John,** **I need you**. Come on, John. Wake up – **I. Need. You."**

As if they have rehearsed it beforehand, as if he were just waiting for the sound of Sherlock's voice to pull back the curtain and re-enter the stage, John tiredly opens his eyes. He stares upward - and panics.

" ** _Fuck. Fuck,"_** thinks the detective.

John's eyes open – and he focuses on the first thing he sees.

**Right.**

The pale green ceiling.

And Sherlock has left his wrists tied to the bedrails.

John's eyes widen in panic, and he begins to thrash, to tug, then pull wildly against his restraints.

"John. John!"

Sherlock holds John down with both hands on the doctor's shoulders. John looks everywhere but at the detective's face.

"Fuck. Look at me, John. Look. It's all right. You're in hospital. It's all right. You're fine. Calm down, John!"

As he talks, he first frees John's right wrist, then shifts with his hands and frees the left.

John's breath comes in gasps. His eyes are dark, wild. There are small smudges under John's eyes, deep smudges that underscore the dark blue of his partner's eyes.

His eyes fail to focus and John fails to _see_ Sherlock. He frowns, the lines in his face deepening with exhaustion. With confusion.

Suddenly, John's body stops shaking. He more or less goes limp in the detective's hands. He just lies there – and stares upward.

John stares as if he does not _quite_ recognize the man who stands over him. But he at last calms down and his hands lie quietly at his side as if he realizes the restraints have been removed.

John looks up at Sherlock quizzically. The detective still does not see recognition in his Army doctor's eyes. His stomach tumbles.

"What? What happened?" the tired doctor's voice croaks. He continues to stare upward at Sherlock Holmes with puzzlement.

Sherlock winces at the sound of John's hoarse voice, which sounds off kilter. The detective straightens. And looks down at the man he loves. He notes the puzzlement, the strange stare. And hurriedly thinks what works best with John.

He stands there, hands in the pockets of his trousers and smiles grimly down at the doctor.

"The zombie apocalypse, John. It's the sodding zombie apocalypse."

OooOooO

Mycroft Holmes sits at his desk and pours over a list of his London-based agents on his computer screen. For once, no soothing music plays in the background.

Frankly, neither one of them could think of any type of musical distraction that would make any difference to the situation at hand.

He uses the mouse pointer to check off those agents he knows are safe – they have been put through the interrogation process – and declared clean.

It is not many. And he has two of them at St. Anne's standing guard at John Watson's hospital room, another two on hand for the night shift, if needed. And several more at the manor house.

Mycroft sighs and goes over the list again. He will have to pull in agents, two at a time, to be put through "the process," as he refers to it. He might have to pull in some from the continent.

And then there is that bloody Korean report come back to haunt him.

Anthea opens the door, waits patiently for him to look up at her from his pc monitor.

When he does, she just smiles. "They're coming in, two at a time, to be tested. I've got them scheduled for the remainder of today, clear into tomorrow afternoon. Each and every one of them insisted, Sir."

He stares at her, nods once. "Very well. Then this process is redundant."

He shuts down the list of agents. They both stare at each other.

OooOooO

John sits on the side of the bed in his boxer shorts and tee shirt and stares around his hospital room tiredly. Sherlock stands back a way, but still more or less in front of him and watches the proceedings.

One of John's day nurses has come in, set a medium-sized sterile plastic envelope on the bed next to John. She smiles at him. Begins to take his vitals, preparatory to removing the stitches in John's thigh.

John watches her quietly, turning slightly this way and that as she requests. But the detective notes that John's eyes do not – quite – focus on her movements. He frowns.

John barely acknowledges Sherlock's presence. And that with just the smallest of tired smiles at Sherlock's attempt at shock humor.

Sherlock stares at John Watson, his eyes narrow. Something is wrong. Very wrong.

He shakes his head, then realizes Mycroft is waiting for a response.

While the nurse prepares to John's staples and to speak with them both concerning his ongoing care of the wound, Sherlock sends a text.

**Mummy?**

**Manor?**

**SH**

The answer takes less than ten seconds to come.

**M. removed to safety.**

**Annoyed but safe.**

**Guards doubled.**

**Decision?**

**MH**

Sherlock thinks furiously. Right now, they have no other option.

**Manor.**

**SH**

His brother's response comes almost immediately.

**Understood.**

**Details to follow.**

**Evening departure.**

**MH**

Sherlock stares at the screen.

Types **OK.** Then pauses, his hand on the keys.

Reviewing the texts he has received from Mycroft, Sherlock realizes that war has been declared on the Holmes brothers and by direct inference, on anyone and everyone in their orbit.

He hits **SEND** \- and turns his attention to the nurse who has come in to remove John's stitches.

And to show him how to give John injections of the medication Dr. Merit has prescribed for the doctor during an attack when there isn't a physician – or nurse – on hand to do so.

John still does not speak to Sherlock.

OooOooO

"Gentlemen, I understand, I believe, the urgency in removing Doctor Watson from the care of St. Anne's. And I would be a liar if I didn't say that there will be considerable _relief_ among the Board of Directors when Doctor Watson is remanded to another facility – one more equipped to deal with his current, er needs."

William Merit looks at both men – at John who sits on the side of the bed and stares back at him, quiet to the extreme, and at Sherlock, who stands on the other side of the hospital bed, directly behind John.

From his position, Sherlock studies the back of John's dark blonde head. And wonders, not for the first time in the past hour since John has awakened, what is going on in that tired brain.

The detective feels jumpy, on edge. He thinks things will improve when they get John away from St. Anne's. But now he worries about the relative safety of the Holmes' manor.

And about the intense irritation his and Mycroft's actions have caused their mother.

Merit looks from John's exhausted, lined face to Sherlock, where he stands behind John's bed.

"Doctor Watson, Mr. Holmes told me earlier that he wanted you to be brought up to speed on your current condition and on certain, er reports that have come to light concerning the drug you has been subjected to. As well as what course I recommend your treatment take. The final decision, of course, will lie with your new, er Physician. And you, of course."

Sherlock stares at Merit and nods once, curtly. He has already told John, the night before, about the hopefully misleading reports that have been sent to Merit from Switzerland. This will not be news to John. But he wants Merit to discuss all aspects of John's care with him personally.

He waits for a reaction from John. Any reaction at all.

None is forthcoming.

John's shoulders straighten slightly, but otherwise he does not move. Or speak. He just continues to look steadily at Doctor Merit.

Sherlock frowns. He cannot shake the feeling, nearly overwhelming now, that something is wrong with John. He is not reacting to anything that anyone says other than with the same tired nod.

The detective stares over John's head directly at Doctor Merit. And raises one eyebrow.

Merit looks back at him. Then he glances at John Watson. His eyes widen and he lifts his head to return Sherlock's gaze. He frowns, shakes his head slightly.

Sherlock walks around John's bed until he stands more or less, directly in front of John.

He stares at the exArmy doctor.

"John?" Sherlock's voice is quiet, yet commanding. He is ordering John to respond to him.

John raises his head slightly to stare in Sherlock's general direction. His gaze does not meet Sherlock's eyes, rather seems to look beyond the detective.

The Sherlock's eyes widen with shock. Then narrow with understanding.

John has gone "elsewhere."

And not returned.

OooOooO

**A pharmaceutical company in the business district. Lucerne, Switzerland.**

Michael Billings is cleaning his gun. He sits at the small table in the back of the room, strips down the weapon, then methodically cleans and oils each part. Like his predecessor, Billings prefers a Sig Sauer. He hates this coincidence, as Jim as pointed out to him.

But he'll be damned if he changes his weapon of choice for the stupid reason that his predecessor carried the same weapon.

So he continues cleaning, then reassembling his weapon.

His mobile sits on the table next to him. From time to time, he glances at it, to note the time and to see if he has a text from Jim. He cannot afford to be late to pick up Moriarty or to ignore any messages from the mad man.

And that is how Billings refers to him in his mind. The mad man. The little mad man.

Out loud, all he calls him is Jim.

He goes over the revealing conversation he had with the madm — er with Jim, the evening before. After Jim had sat there and dictated the corrections to the reports that Dr. Strunk was to send to John Watsons' doctor in the UK.

After the reports are changed, and Jim has verified that the first one had been sent to Watson's doctor, he stares at the little man with the terrifying black eyes.

"You're trying to get him here. Holmes. You're manipulating these reports so that eventually, he will come here to you."

Jim nods, pleased with his new recruit. "Excellent, Billings. I'm pleased." He swivels around in his chair and nods at his new Lieutenant.

"Once Watson's doctor receives the first few reports, wherein we renumerate the – unfortunate – demise of the first two or three victims of Frank's drugs, we will then make available the rather remarkable course of treatment that seems to be making a difference for the remaining victims."

He breaks off – waits for Billings to respond. Which he does.

"And once Holmes obtains these reports, he will not hesitate to come here to Switzerland and bring John Watson with him, to avail themselves of this new treatment for the good doctor's condition. Which, of course, can only be had here in Lucerne, obviously."

Jim smiles delightedly. As if his pet dog has just performed an amazing trick.

"Exactly," he beams.

OooOooO

They meet in broad daylight, in a café near Piccadilly Circus. The two men each order a coffee, pass the time of day with inane pleasantries.

Coffees finished, each one stands up. They nod at each other, shake hands, prepare to go about their day. And each of them takes the folded newspaper the other has left sitting there.

They leave.

OooOooO

She walks in to his office with a firm step. And stands just in front of his desk. He glances up at her, smiles tiredly.

She looks at him steadily and holds out a slim file.

Mycroft Holmes takes the file, glances at the name on it, then looks back up at her.

He shakes his head. "Not necessary, my dear." He moves as if to return the file to her.

She shakes her head and smiles grimly at him. And he sees her resolve.

"Sir, I am not giving you an option here. I am afraid I have to insist."

He stands up now, clearly agitated. "My dear, this is totally, completely unnecessary. I refuse to put you through this – process."

Anthea tilts her head back slightly to stare into the eyes of this man she works for. This wonderful, complicated, mystery of a man.

"Mycroft," she says quietly. His eyes widen; it is one of the few times she has ever used his given name. "Mycroft – you can be present, or not. It's entirely up to you. But I've already set up the session and I'm going there now."

She smiles at him again and turns to leave. He glances down at her file on the desk blotter in front of him. At the door, she turns back and fixes him with a unwavering stare.

"We cannot go forward with this investigation – you and I – until we both know for certain. Are you coming?"

Dead silence.

He stares into her dark eyes and sighs. And he realizes this is one time he is not going to be able to override her.

"Yes, my dear. I am most definitely coming along."

They walk out of his office together.

OooOooO

Sherlock paces back and forth in John's hospital room. The doctor is napping, for want of a better term. He is lying down, his eyes are closed and he is more or less unmoving.

Doctor Merit stares from John's face, nearly wiped clean of any recognizable emotions to the detective's face and back again.

"You mean he is –"

"Not with us, I believe you call it. Hopefully, he will return –"

"Mr. Holmes, what you are describing is a form of catatonic schizophrenia." Merit glances again at John Watson, then frowns, deep in thought.

"I've seen this condition in several patients in my lifetime, most of them children who were victims of continued abuse – but " Merit's voice breaks off as he studies the sleeping doctor.

Sherlock sighs tiredly. He has no idea how to explain to Merit what he believes John is doing. How to even begin such an explanation or what form it would take.

Sherlock believes that John has "gone away" in his head to attempt to deal with what has been done to him at the hands of James Moriarty.

But he has never been "away" in his head this long. Never.

It is as if the doctor subconsciously realized he had, once again, been injected with Frank's drug – and that there's not a damn thing he can do about it.

Other than to go where the incident, the reality of the situation, can no longer hurt him.

And Sherlock cannot help but think it has to do with the injection he received earlier the day before at the hands of Mycroft's rogue agent. Rushed blood tests have shown the drug to be once again in John's bloodstream. But what if they are dealing with something new?

What if it had been tampered with? What if, God forbid, the bastards had cut it with something first? And Merit's tests haven't caught it?

All this boils down to, the detective thinks, is that John Watson's tired brain has had enough, thank you. It no longer wants to come out to play.

And how is all of this going to fit in with removing John from St. Anne's later that evening?

It is entirely possible that Merit will refuse to let the detective take John Watson away from St. Anne's. Sherlock thinks they will be lucky if John isn't sectioned before the evening comes.

In that instance, Sherlock will have to get Mycroft involved. Sherlock hasn't got an idea in hell how this is going to play out.

He just knows John has to wake up. Soon.

OooOooO

There is a moment of silence in the conference room. Then he steps forward.

"My dear – you are cleared for active duty."

She sighs, bends her head for a moment, then reaches for the two tablets Agent Enders has laid in front of her.

It is a toss-up as to which of them is more white-faced at that moment: Anthea or Mycroft.

OooOooO

Merit has left to consult with a colleague. In the meantime, he has requested, in terms that brook absolutely no argument, that John's wrists are once again restrained and that he has no visitors other than Sherlock. And John's nurses.

Sherlock agrees. After Merit leaves, shaking his head and muttering to himself, Sherlock steps out to have a word with Mycroft's two agents outside their hospital door.

He tells them the information he feels they need to have. They both nod their understanding.

Sherlock comes back into John's room. He leaves the door open in case he needs to shout for a nurse.

He comes to stand over John's bed and to stare at the doctor's quiet form.

He is thinking so fast, his thought processes coming so quickly, that he momentarily feels dizzy.

Finally, he nods once, crosses to the small table that holds John's medical records, and starts searching through them frantically.

At the same time, he hears the text chime from his mobile phone.

Sherlock stops his search through John's medical records and reads the text from Anthea.

He raises one eyebrow, thinks fast, texts her back with a question or two and waits for her response. It comes in less than a minute.

The detective reads the response, then nods once to himself. He types one word, hits the SEND key and places his mobile back in his pocket.

And goes back to searching through John's medical records. Less than one minute later, he finds what he is looking for.

The records – and accompanying x-rays – from John Watson's attending physician when John was admitted to the hospital when he was only 14, apparently suffering from severe physical abuse at the hands of his male parent.

Sherlock reads the report, then glances at the x-rays of John's broken wrist, a small wrist twisted and broken when John was only eight years old. He is aware of a deep anger bubbling just below the surface of his conscious mind. _If John's father were still alive -_ But he has no time for it now.

There is something else he read earlier that morning, while John slept. Something the hospital physician had noted in John's file. Something – ah, here it is.

Sherlock reads the report by John's doctor from that time when John was 14. He glances at John's sleeping face.

It all makes sense to him now. All of it.

Sherlock is no psychiatrist. But it doesn't take one to piece together these facts. John was abused for years as a child. John has never referred to this time in his life. Up until this moment, Sherlock has only been dimly aware that something occurred – and then only because Harry Watson had once inadvertently referred to John's mistreatment one night when she came to see John. John had momentarily left the room to change his shirt, preparatory to leaving with Harry, leaving his sister and Sherlock to stand awkwardly together there in the flat. Some comment that Harry made at that time began Sherlock on the train of thought. "He'll hurry. Dad always used to hate it when John kept him waiting, for anything. I've seen him hit John so hard that -" she broke off hurriedly, as she realised what she had said. She and Sherlock just looked at each other. Harry remained tight-lipped the rest of the evening around the detective.

John refuses to discuss the situation with Sherlock and Sherlock has never pushed it.

Reading through John's files, the detective can see that John developed the ability to "go away" during these beatings – unfortunately not an uncommon occurrence amongst children of such abuse. John honed this ability to a fine art – and used it in Afghanistan – and later, during his partnership with Sherlock.

John suffered through five days of multiple injections of Franks' hideous drug. Nine injections, _micro injections_ Hansen called them, over the course of five days, perhaps a bit more.

If you count the kidnapping, the operation, all of it, he was in Moriarty's hands for nearly seven days. Seven days of unremitting hell.

Seven days during which the ability to mentally remove himself from the proceedings would have been a God send.

Hansen told Sherlock that the drug caused dreams and hallucinations. Sherlock saw evidence of that on the tapes the snake Moriarty sent him.

The injections and resulting infection from the gun wound, the severe malnutrition and dehydration all acted to basically kill John Watson, there in the hallway of the Wellington Museum. John was more or less dead when Sherlock carried the unconscious form of the doctor out of the Museum to the waiting SUV.

He just didn't stop breathing until five minutes later.

John was resuscitated and admitted to St. Anne's. He slept for five days. Five days that nearly drove Sherlock insane with worry. Five days during which Sherlock now believes John was subconsciously processing everything that had been done to him. Five days during which John Watson's body tried to heal, to recover from the horrific abuse it had suffered.

Five terrible days. One day for each day of injections. _"Although that part might be a coincidence,"_ thinks Sherlock.

And since John has awakened, he has shown very little interest in his own condition. Until that afternoon, just a few days back, when the tired doctor had looked at Sherlock – and asked him what part of **_Doctor_** Watson did the detective not understand?

Sherlock studies John's still face – and thinks to himself that - given the same set of circumstances - he would not want to remember anything of his treatment at Moriarty's hands either.

_And if he had the ability to just make it all go away – well …_

And since awakening, John has suffered three attacks – three episodes, during which he endured the sickening after effects of Frank's bloody drug.

Three episodes while John was awake. And more or less totally aware of what was happening to him.

Sherlock wonders now how many John suffered while he was asleep. How many times did he endure the agonies of this addiction response in his supposedly sleeping mind?

As Lori Hansen explained the effects of Franks' drug cocktail to Sherlock – and to Doctor Merit – the drug causes spectacular hallucinations, dreams that would appear to be real while they were playing out in John Watson's exhausted min. Dreams of pleasure. Dreams of pain. Dreams that at times must have been agonizing in their intensity.

Couple these horrors with John's defense mechanism he had learned at the hands of his abusive monster of a parent – and it makes for one hell of a psychological maelstrom in the good doctor's exhausted and abused mind.

Now – Sherlock believes - John has taken it one step further. Up until now, Sherlock had only seen it as John's way of examining his own actions after a particularly difficult case.

Up until now, Doctor John Watson had not been shot, kidnapped and used as a guinea pig to test the effects of a particularly vile drug cocktail. He had not been locked up, restrained, and shot full of same drug cocktail twice a day for five long days, during which his behavior was recorded by the constant cameras in his room. During which times he was left virtually alone in his locked room

Alone in a Hell of James Moriarty's making.

Up until now, John's life had not been so damned difficult to endure that he needed to go away in his head to escape it.

Sherlock wonders how many times in the past three weeks, has John gone away in his head, to avoid the absolutely horrific reality of his condition? That would most definitely explain the lengths of time the doctor has spent 'sleeping.'

And now John has had to deal with the horrifying reality of his situation. The reality that Doctor John. H. Watson, a former battle surgeon, a decorated exArmy doctor and Captain, a doctor currently employed by the NHS, is now a full-blown drug addict.

_And as such, incapable of acting as a physician to anyone, including himself._

Sherlock puts the report back into John's file and comes to stand over John Watson's quiet form.

He is aghast at his own actions. If he is correct, while John was processing what had happened to him, processing that once again he had been injected with the drug cocktail that nearly killed him three weeks earlier, he, Sherlock had more or less demanded that John Watson wake up.

He called out to John Watson, asked him for help. And John Watson had reacted the way he always reacts when Sherlock Holmes asks him for help.

He came running.

But his unconscious mind had remained asleep. Processing, still processing.

_Bloody hell ! And just plain fuck this._

He begins to pace now, his mind working furiously. There is no way he can begin to explain this to Doctor Merit. And even if he could, there is no way that Merit would begin to understand.

He'd probably react by having them both sectioned.

Sherlock reads again the two texts from Mycroft's enigmatic assistant. And frowns.

There is precious little time. They have to get John out of this hospital soon, that evening.

Because if Anthea – and by default – Mycroft are correct, then Mycroft's organization has been infiltrated from the inside. And until every single one of his brother's people have been interrogated, they have no fucking idea which agents of Mycroft's to trust – and which should have a bullet put in their brains.

Sherlock sits down in the chair next to John Watson's bed – and drops his head into his hands.

" _Bloody, fucking Hell !"_ he thinks.

OooOooO

While he holds onto his aching head, Sherlock's mobile rings. He glances at the screen. _Oh utter hell._ That Sawyer person again.

Their conversation is brief.

"Tell him, tell him we all miss him very much. And tell him – no, don't tell him this. Not yet. But Sherlock, I have to replace John if it's going to be a while before he can return to the surgery. I hate to do this. But his continued absence has left us extremely short-handed."

Sherlock thinks furiously. He has no right to make these decisions for John. On the other hand, John is in no condition to make them for himself.

"I think – that would be wise, Doctor Sawyer. I'll tell John when he is in better condition and able to take this news."

"All right. Thank you. And thank you for everything you are doing for him. I'm – I'm sorry things were left so badly between us."

When she hangs up, Sherlock curiously feels that she does so with relief, as if it's the last time in a long time that she and John Watson will have any interaction with each other.

Sherlock really can't bring himself to care.

OooOooO

While he sits by John's bed and waits for Merit to return, Sherlock prepares to make a difficult call. He dials Harriet Watson's number.

She refuses to pick up. Sighing, Sherlock leaves a message to call him. After he hangs up, he has a thought and his eyes widen.

_Of course. Stupid. Stupid._

He texts Mycroft, who answers almost immediately.

**H. Watson taken to safe house.**

**All is well.**

**John?**

**MH**

Sherlock stares at the screen. He has no response for Mycroft, other than to tell him John is still sleeping. So he does.

He stands up to walk around the room, stare out the window, anything other than to look at his partner's quiet face.

"Mr. Holmes?" Doctor Merit comes into John's room - accompanied by a short trim woman with dark hair - and the most brilliant green eyes he has ever seen in his life.

"Doctor Margaret Oakton, Mr. Sherlock Holmes."

The detective acknowledges the introduction, stares at Merit with one raised eyebrow.

William Merit smiles grimly. "Mr. Holmes, I have no idea who Doctor Watson's new attending physician will be. But Doctor Oakton is a valued colleague - and a clinical psychologist. She is visiting St. Anne's today for a teaching conference and has agreed to give Doctor Watson's case some time this -"

"Oh, Bill, for heavens' sakes. Cut through the BS." She holds one slim hand out to Sherlock, who takes it, quietly amused by her American accent.

"Maggie Oakton, just Maggie is fine." She crosses to stand over John's bed, glances down at his sleeping form, then looks up at Sherlock. He looks back at her - and suddenly feels a frisson of hope.

She glances around, "Are those his records?" and goes over to pick up the small stack of folders Sherlock has left on the side table.

"With your permission, Mr. Holmes," she seats herself on the divan and begins to read through John's file.

Merit clears his throat once. "Well, I - I guess I'll leave you to it, Maggie. Thanks again." He glances from her quiet figure, absorbed now in John's files to Sherlock. He nods. "Mr. Holmes, I will go work on those discharge papers for Doctor Watson."

He pauses at the door, fixes the detective with a stare. "You do realize, Mr. Holmes, that there is no way I can sign off on Doctor Watson's release from St. Anne's unless I know who will be taking over his care and what facility you are removing him-"

"Bill, for gods sakes, give it a rest," she says with quiet amusement. "Give me an hour here, all right?"

Merit nods once, sighs and leaves.

Sherlock turns to stare at her in quiet amazement. She glances up from John's files to see him watching her.

Maggie Oakton smiles, pats the divan next to her. The detective hesitates, then walks over and sits down by her side.

"Now let's go over this, shall we? I understand time is of the essence." Sherlock begins to interject and she shushes him. Shushes him!

"Mr. Holmes, I believe Mycroft will have an actual fit if we do not get Doctor Watson out of here today, rather this evening. Let's see if we can make that happen, all right?"

She has managed to astonish him where few ever have. He can only stare at her - and nod.

OooOooO

* THERE BUT FOR THE GRACE OF JOHN WATSON, Ch. 4.

Author's Note: See DEBRIEFING, my one-shot story on FF, which deals 100% with John's ability to "go into the silence."


	5. Chapter 5

**These characters in their current incarnation belong to the BBC and in their original incarnation, to the estate of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, may his name be blessed!**

**THE BOYS OF BAKER STREET**

**CH. 5**

**WARNING: Enough angst to carry you into next Tuesday; Memories of Child Abuse; Language; Con and Noncon restraint; and Two Human Beings Proclaiming their Love for Each Other.**

**If any of these things give you pause, please look away.**

**NOTE: This ongoing work is a Trilogy.  This is Book Two.   This work occasionally references events that occurred in Book One:  THERE BUT FOR THE GRACE OF JOHN WATSON. If you have not read that work, you might not "get" some of the references in this story. You might want to stop right here and go read GRACE first, then come back to BOYS.  Otherwise, your reading experience will not have the intensity that I labored so hard to create for you.**

 

OooOooO

"Mr. Holmes –"

"Sherlock—"

She smiles. "Very well. Maggie, please."

She glances at John's sleeping form, then looks back at the detective.

"We could do this the usual way. Once Doctor Watson awakens, I would arrange for him to be moved to my clinic. After he had become used to his new surroundings – and the fact that you were not with him – I would then start him on medication designed to reduce his extraordinary reactions to Dr. Franks' drug. This would only be done after he had experienced at least one attack, perhaps two, so that I and my colleagues could observe the Doctor's reaction to his desire for the drug. Blood work would be done, of course, duplicating everything William has done here. But that's what insurance is for, right?"

She smiles grimly.

"After a week or two on the new medications, we would re-evaluate his condition. And of course, he would be monitored around the clock. More cameras, I am afraid, - and constant observation and that would _not_ help him with the memories of his abduction, imprisonment and torture at the hands of this Moriarty individual."

Here she breaks off and stares directly into Sherlock's eyes.

"And make no mistake about it, Mister Holmes. It was deliberate torture…torture for nearly seven days, during which time, Doctor Watson was subjected to multiple injections of a drug that was basically designed to not only create a craving for the drug, a dependence – but to eventually drive him nearly out of his mind."

She studies John's sleeping form for a moment. She sighs.

"That they did not succeed is a testament to John Watson's rather remarkable mental and emotional strength. But even the strongest of individuals are broken down when enough chemicals become involved."

She looks from John to Sherlock, who has gone pale.

"He was fed sporadically and even then, he had no desire to eat. He was given water, thank Christ, or we would not be having this conversation now. His every moment was recorded on cameras placed in the corner of his prison and that Doctor Watson, a trained soldier, could not fail to notice, even in his condition."

She looks at the detective, thinks thoughtfully.

"Doctor Watson was shot. The bullet was removed and the wound stitched up. But then he was not given any time to recover, even though this Nurse Hansen did her best, under frankly horrific circumstances. And – more torture - Doctor Watson's ribs were deliberately broken; he was attacked, not once but twice, according to your testimony, his ribs were broken, cracked, and this left him incapable of breathing properly. In short he was in physical, mental and emotional torment twenty-four hours a day for nearly seven days. "

"At which time, you managed to get him away from that hellhole – but he died on the way to hospital."

Her voice drops and she studies Sherlock. "Have I left anything out?"

The detective shakes his head, unable to speak.

She stares at him quizzically.

"Good, returning to his treatment, I would want to discuss these matters with him, and there is absolutely no guarantee he would even want to discuss this time spent in hell with me – but I or one of my colleagues would try, beginning with weekly therapy sessions, perhaps two a week and progressing to three or four. His blood work would be monitored again and when we felt – if we felt - it was safe to reintegrate him into society – or at least into your custody – he would then be expected to attend several sessions a week, during which I would begin to actually ask him what he experienced at the hands of James Moriarty, what memories he had. If these sessions proved difficult, we would back pedal a while. Perhaps adjust his medication again. And naturally, throughout all of this, we would slowly be substituting one horrendous addiction for a lesser evil – one we feel we could treat and control. And eventually, if God is very, very good to us, in, about 18 to 24 months’ time, I would then send your life partner back to you, more or less cured."

She looks at Sherlock with a raised eyebrow and a serious expression on her face. He finds himself staring into her emerald green eyes.

"But you and I both know there is no such thing as total cure when it comes to addiction. Not always. The need is always there. It lurks, for want of a better word. And he would have to be watched of course. Possibly for the rest of his life but we hope that is not the case."

"What Doctor Watson has going for him is that you did get him out of there. There were no more shots – until yesterday, that is. And he was exposed for one week. Eventually it is out of his blood stream but I'm afraid not out of his mind, his psyche."

Her voice drops. "I'm very much afraid that Doctor Watson's days as a practicing physician are over, by the way, if we cannot find some way to help this man. This fact, too would have to be broken to him. From what you tell me – and what I can ascertain from his records – it was absolutely devastating to John Watson when he was told he would never perform surgery again due to the tremor in his hand, resulting from the horrific damage to his shoulder and subsequent infection".

It has become very quiet in John Watson's hospital room. Sherlock Holmes stares at Maggie Oakton – and wishes she would shut up. Just shut the hell up. At the same time, he has to hear. Has to listen.

She ticks off items on her fingers. Sherlock notes her nails are beautifully cared for but the polish is clear.

"These are the things that have been taken away from John Watson in his life: All hopes of a normal childhood, of a normal loving relationship with his parents. He was abused for years, beaten by his male parent. And his mother looked on, as did his sister, a child in her own right. "

She glances at John again.

"He was shot, nearly bled to death in Afghanistan, experienced a severe fever and an infection – staph perhaps - which left his shoulder nearly disabled. He has had to work hard to retain use of it. And of course, his days as a surgeon ended with that bullet and subsequent infection. It left him with an intermittent tremor, a psychosomatic limp and make no mistake about it, Mr. Holmes,  John Watson's pain from that imaginary limp was just as great as any "real" injury he could have suffered. A bullet grazed his thigh, before the shoulder wound, and he bears a scar to this day, now doubled in size by the shot which found him a few scant weeks ago."

"He was tied, securely tied, to the bed in that room, sometimes partially restrained, sometimes fully. He was 100% dependent on others for basic cleanliness, water, food, even a blanket, and proper medical attention – which he did not receive. Although Ms. Hansen tried – but she was a prisoner herself and not always allowed to see to his needs."

"During this time, he undoubtedly expected you to find him, given the nature of your work and of your relationship with each other, which you did by the way, but from the effects of the drug, his malnutrition and subsequent dehydration and fever from infection – not to mention the absolute pain of his injury – well, the upshot is that his captivity must have seemed like weeks to Doctor Watson, rather than a little more than 7 days."

Maggie Oakton rises and walks to John Watson's bedside to stare down at him. Her tone turns ironic.

"Really, why should we cut the man any slack? Why should he be allowed to sleep, to rest? If he has, "gone away in his mind," as you call it, then I say Bravo to John Watson. It's the most obvious choice for anyone to make, given the same circumstances and I applaud his ability to do it."

She glances at the detective wryly.

"That's your partner's condition in a nutshell, Mr. Holmes, as well as the "normal" prescribed treatment. That is, if we do this thing the hard way. Or –"

Sherlock stands up, walks to the other side of John's bed.

"Or-?" he asks.

Delighted with his quick study, she smiles a quick bright smile which lights up her green eyes.

"Or," she says, "we can do this the easy way."

He looks at her, raises one eyebrow.

She nods. "We can wake John up right now – and see how we get on. In short, cut through the hairy bull shit."

She looks up at Sherlock sharply.

"According to William – and to John's nurses and even to you – he was growing increasingly restless and everyone felt he was about to regain consciousness shortly."

She looks down at John's chart in her hands.

"This is borne out by his blood pressure and observations by the nursing staff."

She looks at Sherlock. "And then you jumped the gun, so to speak."

Sherlock nods, stares at Maggie Oakton.

"The two of you are partners," she says. She is not asking, Sherlock notes. Just stating a fact.

He nods slowly, watching her, wondering where this is going.

"Fine. Mr. Holmes - Sherlock – what is his best side?"

He frowns. "I am afraid I don't follow."

She sighs. "Sherlock, when you speak to John, when the two of you are together – intimate, if you will. What side do you tend to – favor?"

He frowns. _How is this any of her business?_

She sighs again, impatiently. "If you were going to kiss your partner, whisper to him, tell him something you only wanted him to hear –"

Sherlock looks down at John, "His left."

She nods. "Good. I see you already have a chair there. Please sit by John's left side then."

Sherlock sits down, looks at John's quiet face, then up to Maggie Oakwood.

"All right," he says. _My God, has Mycroft sent him some sort of New Age quack? Where is this going?_

She smiles gently. "Not New Age quackery, I can assure you. Just years and years of experience – of discovering that sometimes, the simplest answer is the most correct one."

He stares at her; up until that moment in time, only one individual on the planet can read his mind – and Mycroft is not in the room.

"And No, I cannot read minds. But your thought processes were remarkably clear on your face, Mr. Holmes. I suspect that is always the case when speaking of John Watson with you."

She looks down at John again, then takes several steps back, so she is more or less in shadow, away from the light from the window, away from the subdued lighting from behind John's bed.

"Now please do what you would normally do, if you were waking John up. Hold his hand, put your hand on his wrist, shake him gently. Whatever you would normally do. Call him if that is what you do."

"That's what got us into this mess," Sherlock protests.

She shakes her head. "What mess? The man is simply asleep. From what I've read in his file – and from what you and Mycroft have told me – he has every right to sleep. For about twenty years if he wants. But we do not have that much time. We have –" she consults her watch. "Anywhere from five to six hours, max. So let's get on with this."

She takes another couple of steps back from the men. This simple act seems to create a small bubble of intimacy around Sherlock and John. Her face is in shadow. He looks from her now darkened form, to the man in the bed in front of him.

"All right, Mr. Holmes. Go ahead, wake John up."

Sherlock stares at her, frowns. Then he looks at John.

"If it will help, please pretend that I'm not here."

She glances at the detective, he can barely see her eyes but cannot read the expression on her face.

"Sherlock – just do what you would normally do to wake up your partner. If you would touch his hand, then do so. If you would kiss him, then do so. But do it now. Time is of the essence."

Sherlock looks again at John. Then he raises his right hand, hesitantly brushes it through John's dark blonde spikes, once, twice. "John, wake up."

He glances up at Maggie. She nods encouragingly.

" _In for a penny"…_ he decides. Sherlock stands, bends over his partner, sees again the paleness of John's countenance, the frown lines, the honest, open face, now drowned in sleep. The faint tremor in John's left hand that makes Sherlock want to kill someone – slowly. He swallows the urge down where it becomes bile and stares at John.

He sighs, bends over John, brushes his lips across John's forehead.

"John, John," He murmurs. "Wake up. Time to go."

Then he brushes his lips across John's mouth, kisses him gently. Sherlock stands straighter, his right hand wrapped around John's left wrist.

"John," Sherlock calls softly, urgently.

A moment.

And John Watson sighs, turns his head toward the detective – and slowly opens his eyes.

Maggie says nothing. She stays back. And observes.

Sherlock's eyes widen. John's dark blue eyes are open now, turned toward the detective and Sherlock's face is the first thing he sees.

"Sher—Sherlock?" he whispers.

The detective nods. "Yes, John, it's me. Time to wake up."

John's eyes widen as he sees the man he loves so close to his face. "Are we still-?

"In St. Anne's? Yes, John. But we are leaving soon. I'm taking you away. Today. We're going away from this place."

John stares at him for a moment, then sighs. "Thank God for that."

He turns his head and stares at the ceiling for a second, then turns back.

"Something happened to me? I can't quite –"

"It's okay, John. It's fine. Let's see if you can sit up. We'll talk about everything then. Can you sit?"

John sighs. "I think so, Sherlock." He begins to struggle to a sitting position, stops and frowns.

"Are the stitches – someone has taken them out - while I was sleeping?"

"Yes, John. While you were sleeping. Can you sit up now?"

The detective moves a steady hand behind the doctor's back and helps scoot John to a more or less sitting position.

At this moment, Maggie steps closer, into John's line of sight. She quickly moves to the end of his bed.

And flashes that bright smile. "Doctor Watson, my name is Maggie Oakton."

He looks at her, then turns to look at Sherlock, who is still by his left side.

"Oakton? I'm afraid –" his voice trails off. He turns his head to look at Sherlock again, in slight panic mode now. Sherlock notes John's voice is a hoarse whisper, again. He winces.

"Doctor Maggie Oakton. I'm a colleague of William Merit's, your attending physician here at St. Anne's. William asked me to look in on you."

She looks at Sherlock and smiles. He smiles back at her for John's sake.

"I understand that Mr. Holmes is checking you out of St. Anne's later this evening."

She hesitates, then goes on smoothly.

"There are a few things, Doctor Watson, that you and I and Mr. Holmes need to go over, before you are discharged."

She places John's file down on the table. "But first things first. You should be hungry by now and if not, at least very thirsty. You are still dehydrated, I am afraid. And of course, you've been asleep for a while. You probably want to use the facilities , possibly get cleaned up while I scare us all up some food."

She goes to the door, flashes a bright quick smile at both men.

"Feel free to ask any questions you want of Mr. Holmes. I am sure he has most of the answers. But we'll leave the more, medically necessary, ones until I return. With food.

I'll be back in – " she consults her watch, "30 minutes, shall we say?"

She opens the door and flashes that bright smile over her shoulder, this time directed to the very confused man sitting up in the hospital bed.

"Oh, and Doctor Watson? It is very nice meeting you at last."

And then she's gone.

Sherlock looks after her.

John Watson looks from the door to Sherlock. "Sherlock? What happened?"

Sherlock looks down at John Watson, considers him thoughtfully. The door opens.

As Doctor Oakton leaves, one of John's nurses comes in, smiles brightly at both men, and begins to quickly and efficiently disengage John from the long tube leading from the stanchion behind John and from the now empty bag of medication that hangs there. She leaves the IV port in the back of John's left hand, just in case, but carefully covers it over with a small padded, waterproof bandage.

All of this preparatory to his imminent release from St. Anne's. She leaves John's plastic ID bracelets on him, of course, until he is actually ready to be discharged.

Sherlock is not even certain that the doctor realizes he has been more or less medicated since he was injected by Mycroft's rogue agent. (He's not certain John is even aware _that_ event occurred – yet.) John will have to remain on some sort of medication from here on out, to help ward off another attack. Hopefully, this will work, until they can get John to a more secure environment. And begin rehab work, with yet more medications.

The more or less constant chemical input will, of course, keep John even more tired than usual, occasionally groggy, Merit has warned, until John's system adjusts. Couple that with the drug that is still in John's bloodstream and - Sherlock mentally prepares himself for the worst.

Sherlock watches the nurse as she works, his mind going over parameters, timetables.

John is silent during this. He just observes her actions. She finishes up, exchanges a few words with Sherlock, who nods, and with John, who looks at her quietly.

Sherlock watches her leave.

He stands for a moment, then crosses to push the door to John's room nearly closed.

The detective turns, hands in pockets, to regard John Watson, propped up in bed. The doctor looks back at him steadily.

"Comfortable, John?" comes the deep drawl.

John nods once, his eyes never leaving Sherlock's.

"No, I mean it, John, really." Sherlock takes one step, just one, toward John's bed. His voice is utterly dry. "I just want to make _certain_ you are comfortable."

He moves to stand more or less right at the end of the bed now.

John Watson's eyes narrow at the tone of voice. He looks at Sherlock.

The doctor nods once. "Little confused, but I'm sure you'll fill me in." John's voice is quiet, little more than a hoarse whisper really. He continues to look at Sherlock.

The detective looks at John, at the confusion and exhaustion evident in his eyes, at the dark smudges under said eyes, the tightness of the skin over the skull, the tremor in John's hand, much more pronounced than it has ever been – and the slight way the good doctor hunches forward to protect his sore ribs. Sherlock's hands clench in the pockets of his trousers.

He nods once.

"That's good, John. I want you to be comfortable. At all times."

Both men continue to stare at each other.

" _Oh, Christ_ ," thinks John tiredly, " _here it comes_."

"Because, John, I want you to listen to me very carefully, so your tiny little mind can grasp this the first time –"

"Sherlock –"

"Do. Not. Interrupt."

Sherlock comes to stand very close to John's side now but still out of fist range. He is aware firsthand that John's punch packs quite a wallop.

He bends over slightly so his voice does not carry to the hall or to Mycroft's men who stand guard at the door.

"Because, John Hamish Watson, if you EVER do this to me again, I will bloody well knock you into next week. And that's a promise. John."

He straightens up even as the doctor reacts; he sees the dark blue eyes narrow. And the eyebrows raise into the hairline. And, well, John's entire face gets into the act.

Sherlock strides over to the door of their small bath, reaches in and brings out several clothing items on hangers, protected by plastic bags, where they hang on the back of the door. He tosses them across the end of John's bed.

He turns back to the loo, finds John's kit, where it sits next to Sherlock's (both their razors long since removed to the nurse's station until called for) lays out John's comb and toothbrush and leaves the open kit sitting there on the sink edge. He comes back out into the room.

John just watches him, his eyes narrowed.

Ignoring the silence coming from the bed, Sherlock opens the drawer of their little cubby, brings out items of underwear, socks, tosses them on the bed as well. Next, he picks up John's best pair of army boots, which Mrs. Hudson delivered a few days ago, (John's brown leather walking shoes having 'disappeared' when John was taken) and drops them on the floor next to the bed.

Finally, he grabs a brand new, military-style coat, dark wool, hideously expensive, still in its wrappings, this one a tad longer and much warmer than the one John wore to the clinic that day, from where Anthea has hung it on the back of the bathroom door. And more or less throws it in John Watson's lap.

At all times, he is careful to remain out of swinging range.

The silence in the room is truly inspiring. As silence goes.

Sherlock strides to the door, then turns, his fists clenched in his pockets.

"I mean every word, John Watson. If you **_ever_** pull this stunt again and leave me here hanging, I will knock you flat."

And he turns and walks out the door.

John just watches him go. He glances at the clothes on his bed, and raises an eyebrow.

Outside John's room, Sherlock nods at the men who stand there, then jerks his head once toward the room. Before walking down the hallway, he turns to look at both agents standing there.

"What in bloody hell are your names?" the detective asks.

The men glance at each other, than at the younger Holmes.

"Enders," says the taller man dryly. He nods at his companion. "This is Agent Lynn.

We – we've both been cleared, Mr. Holmes, if that is what you are wondering."

Sherlock nods. "Reassuring news. Well, Agents Lynn and Enders, if that man even _tries_ to do anything other than shower and dress, you have my permission to knock him down and cuff him to the bed rails."

"Yes sir." Both men respond at the same time.

Enders glances at Lynn, who nods. Agent Lynn walks into John's room, to take up his position just inside the door. And to look meaningfully at John Watson.

John glances at the clothes Sherlock has tossed across the end of his bed. And sighs.

He moves to get out of bed, but nearly stumbles. Lynn comes forward to give him a hand, which the doctor shakily accepts. He's that off kilter.

Sherlock walks away from John Watson's hospital room, but not before stopping at the nurse's station to beg a cigarette. Three nurses look at him and all of them shake their heads.

The head nurse, a lovely older woman with a soft Highland accent, the same one who gave John the warm cola over a week earlier to get him eating, smiles grimly.

"Sorry, Mr. Holmes, can't help you. I quit smoking a month ago."

Sherlock stares at her as if she's lost her mind. "Good GOD! Why ?"

He shakes his head and strides away.

The nurses just look at each other. And smile.

Outside St. Anne's, Sherlock finds a kindred spirit, a young intern, who stands at the corner of the hospital, smoking. A word is exchanged and the intern fishes a pack out of his pocket and tosses it to Sherlock. Then he hands the detective his lighter.

He thanks the man, fishes a cigarette out, makes as if to hand him back the pack. The intern just shakes his head. "Plenty more where that came from," and he pats the pocket of his scrubs.

Sherlock lights up, inhales the first cigarette he has had in 24 hours, draws the blessed smoke deep into his lungs, and stares at the grey sky.

"Cheers, Mr. Holmes." They both stand there and smoke in companionable silence.

Sherlock easily justifies this in his mind. If John is allowed to just "leave" at will – and scare him half to death - then all bets are off. Sherlock can smoke. At will.

Provided one easily provoked Army doctor doesn't find out, of course.

The smoke huffs out in front of him in the frigid air. _Full tar, thank God_.

His mind begins to tick off data.

John is awake – and more or less aware of what is going on around him.

John has a new doctor who actually seems to understand what is going on in John's head.

In a few hours, they will be away from St. Anne's.

Family members - Mrs. Hudson, Harriet Watson – and Mummy - are safe (he hopes.)

And transportation away from the hospital has been arranged.

The Holmes manor awaits.

And - he pats his pocket. He has cigarettes again.

Things are looking up.

He most definitely does not think of Baker Street – or of the deliberate destruction Mycroft described.

OooOooO

Alone in his office, Doctor William Merit opens the newest email report from Doctor Franks' clinic in Switzerland, scans it quickly, then sits there, his head in his hands.

He raises his head finally to glance around his office, at the diplomas on the wall, the citations, the list of achievements, and shakes his head tiredly.

He prints out the latest report for Sherlock Holmes, places it in a folder on his desk, along with copies of the first reports, and sighs. He sincerely hopes Mycroft's brother is right about his suppositions. Otherwise – otherwise, he wouldn't give a pound note for Doctor John Watson's chances of surviving more than a week or two since his injection yesterday by the agent who was set to guard him.

Merit picks up his cuppa, sips, stares into space. He is aware that Mycroft's actual "job" description is far and beyond anything he, Merit, can imagine. But he hasn't pried and Mycroft hasn't offered.

Frankly, William Merit doesn't want to know.

He opens the file folder, glances at the report on top, then flips it closed again. He frowns. There has to be some way to check the veracity of these reports. Placing his cup down, he opens the email on his pc again, reads it one more time, then begins typing furiously. Satisfied, he hits send, prints a copy of his request, places this, too, in the file folder that simply says S. HOLMES on his desk and then pulls John Watson's discharge papers toward him. He glances them over, makes a few notes, then begins to sign them all.

The sooner John Watson is – safely – out of St. Anne's the better. Frankly, he has had a sickening headache since all of this began.

And even now, after nearly three weeks, he's not even certain what _"this"_ is. That John Watson and Sherlock Holmes are more important than they appear to be, he is well aware. Surely one exArmy doctor is not worth the time and attention showered on him – and his care – unless something else, much more vital than Merit can suspect – is going on.

Merit shakes his head again. Again, he just doesn't want to know.

OooOooO

True to her word, Maggie Oakton returns in 30" with several white bags which smell like heaven to Sherlock. John has little reaction. She arranges them on the small table in the corner, and then she and Sherlock swing John's bed tray around, adjust it, and between the two of them they start laying out a late lunch. Or early supper.

John sits up on the side of his bed, his hair still damp. He is dressed in dark jeans, dark blue shirt and the soft blue jumper Lori Hansen gave him as a Christmas gift. He has on dark socks but has not put on the boots yet.

Sherlock keeps staring at John as they lay out the food. The doctor has lost a great deal of weight. The jeans and shirt that Anthea delivered, that were presumably ordered by his brother, fit John perfectly. Sherlock can't help but wonder who noticed that John had lost so much weight and who had guessed his sizes correctly. Mycroft? Anthea?

If Anthea, well, that is acceptable. _All women seem to have a soft spot where John is_ _concerned,_ the detective thinks. They all seem to want to protect John, to dress John, as if he is some sort of oversized doll they play with, then put back in the box when they're through with him. Sherlock wonders, now, how many woman in John's life have simply "put him back in the box" before Sherlock got to him.

He decides he really does not want to know about the women. It is, after all, unimportant.

His mind totally shies away from the idea of any men before him. There are some things that Sherlock simply cannot bear to think about. The men in John's life before him – before Sherlock – is one of those things. If he were to ever have any identifying details about these men, he would have to hunt them down and hurt them. And that might take time. So he tries not to think about them. But the idea of them, these men, these ghosts, sits right there, neatly at the top of the list titled **JOHN WATSON.**

So - if Anthea, that is fine. But if it was Mycroft – well, he and his brother are going to have a little talk.

Sherlock snags a shrimp from the top of one of the boxes and pops it in his mouth, then steals a glance at his partner, who is attempting to ignore him.

The jumper sets off John's blue eyes and they appear even bluer in this light. Perhaps because of the overcast day, the grey light from the window or the blue cashmere jumper, whatever reason, John's hair appears even lighter. The detective notes light grey strands mixed in with the blonde locks – pale gray, nearly white strands, that weren't there a few weeks ago. This all makes for a _very_ blonde Army doctor. Except for the extreme pallor of his face, John looks as if he has spent a great deal of time out in the sun.

Couple that with the weight loss and the new clothes, the tight jeans and form-fitting shirt, that give John the overall appearance of someone in his late teens - and Sherlock's groin tightens uncontrollably. He deliberately looks away from John.

Since John is deliberately not looking at the detective, there is a lot of _not looking_ going on.

Maggie sees it but ignores it all. Presumably there has been a small _tiff_ while she has been out buying their meal. She smiles. William would have said _domestic_. Really, these English terms tickle her sometimes.

"There was a lovely little Cantonese restaurant just down the road," she says, prying the top off a box of steamed rice. She glances at both men. "I hope this is acceptable."

Sherlock grins. He looks at John, who looks back, then nods. Both men smile at her. One of them a tired smile.

"Good," she says. She sets out three soft drink cans and they all begin to eat.

Sherlock is aware that this is most likely the only meal he and John might have for several hours, perhaps until the next day, so he makes it his business to eat. He notes that John picks at his meal, but at a silent stare from the detective, the good doctor slowly begins to fork some food into his mouth.

Apparently unaware of the silence – and of John's frowns at the food on his fork – Maggie begins to speak. Sherlock listens to every word. But he watches John.

She goes over John's medical records while they eat. Halfway through the meal, she puts down her fork, seems to come to some sort of decision, then leans toward John and asks him point blank, "Doctor Watson, are you aware that you were- once again- injected with Dr. Franks' drug – and that this occurred yesterday – and that you have been 'sleeping' since then?"

Sherlock startles at the blunt news. He looks at her as if she has lost her mind.

John's face pales and he drops his fork.

He glances at Sherlock, who looks back, then slowly looks at Maggie Oakton.

"What?" He turns back to Sherlock, "Sherlock, for the love of God –! "

Sherlock shakes his head and puts down his own fork. He folds his hands and studies them for a second.

"John, we were going to tell you as soon as you woke up –" The detective frowns at the anguish in his partner's face – tinged now with growing anger and sheer incredulity – "but you didn't wake up, John."

He leans toward John. "Here's what happened."

As he speaks, Maggie Oakton quietly slips her cool fingers around John's wrist, around his pulse point. He glances at her quickly but does not pull away from her.

The detective begins to speak, quietly, insistently. He tells the entire story, but leaves out one important fact. The reality of the recording with its hateful words. Words directed at his partner, at John.

He ignores, discounts the epithets directed at himself. He is, after all, used to years of such taunts. But the utter poison of the words that were directed toward John – toward his life partner – he mentally shakes his head.

He does not bring these up and never will, he knows. Never.

John Watson shuts his eyes, shuts out the world. His mind, so tired now, barely comprehends this, this thing that has happened to him. _I should be angrier,_ he thinks. _I should get up and scream, wave my arms around_.

But instead, now that he knows what occurred, he feels strangely calm. Perhaps Sherlock is right. Perhaps he spent that sleeping time _processing,_ dealing with what had happened to him.

Perhaps on some deep level, he knew it all along and was just waiting for someone to say something first.

Maggie Oakton removes her hand from his pulse point, then sits there, eats quietly, and watches all of this interaction between the two men. She says nothing.

He opens his eyes to look again at Sherlock. Dark blue eyes look into dark grey eyes. For once, John notes, there is no underlying tint. Just grey. For some reason, this bothers him.

He looks down at the food in front of him.

"Why, Sherlock?" John looks at his partner, who looks back at him sadly. "Why did Mycroft's – rogue- agent do this to me? Why?" And he wants to ask what happened to the man, but somehow he knows that, too. This is, after all, Mycroft they are talking about.

As to why…it is the only question he has not asked of the detective.

But he already knows the answer and sees the anguish on Sherlock's face. John could kick himself. Yes, he knows the answer, but Sherlock will tell him anyway. And that will hurt the detective nearly as badly as the drug hurt John when it re-entered his system.

Sherlock looks straight at the man he loves.

"Because you're mine, John. You were hurt because he wanted to get back at me. And you were an easy target. "

The detective stands abruptly, swipes his hand through his curls. Which gives him an even wilder look.

He paces a few feet, then comes back to stand over John Watson, who looks sadly up at him.

He bends down and brushes his lips across John's forehead. He whispers into John's hair, "You were hurt because you belong to me."

John's eyes close.

Maggie Oakton watches all this, but does not speak.

OooOooO

Mycroft glances up as she pokes her head around his door. She looks particularly lovely today and he wonders if it's just that he is extraordinarily on edge, more or less totally exhausted, which makes him feel off kilter just a bit, or if she always seems lovelier than he remembers.

"And _lovely_ is entirely the correct word," he muses. "'Beautiful' is too banal, too overused. 'Pretty' too girlish. 'Attractive'? Not accurate. **_Lovely_** it is then."

Not for the first time he wonders when someone, perhaps one of his more discerning agents, will notice and take her away from him. He is aware she loves her job, is entirely dedicated to it and to him. But a person has to have priorities. And Mycroft has never discounted the siren song of biology – the lure of hearth, home and family. The hope of children.

He smiles at her.

She smiles at him. "We're just about through with the process. Four are there now. Two agents out ill; flu in the first case but he has already arranged transportation to come in."

He raises an eyebrow. "And the other?" She comes all the way in, hold the door nearly closed behind her.

"Agent McReedy. He's still in hospital since –"

He nods quickly.

Agent McReedy was the second man shot the day John Watson was taken. The first, Peters, died at the scene. They assume Moran was the shooter in each case.

"How is he doing?" he asks, although he has read her latest report. Even with all he has to do, he finds time to keep up on the status of those injured in the line of duty.

She tells him.

He frowns slightly. They look at each other.

OooOooO

The young man looks from one man to the other. He frowns, and runs his hand through his incredibly bright blonde hair. His brilliant blue eyes cloud over.

"I – I can't do that," he protests. "We worked together. She and I were colleagues and all that. I just can't."

One of the men smiles. It is not a nice smile. "Actually," he says quietly. "Actually, I'm very much afraid you can. Otherwise –" he holds up a photograph of a young woman. She has the same blonde, nearly white hair and the same electric blue eyes. She has her arm around a little light-haired girl. They both smile into the camera.

The threat is clear.

Stephan nervously swallows, looks from one to the other again. Sweat pools along his forehead and begins to slowly drip down the side of his face.

Finally, he nods.

"Excellent," says the second man. He hands Stephan a small black box. "Now listen carefully. We cannot allow you to take notes so you will have to memorize this."

As he talks, Stephan's eyes widen.

OooOooO

"You will require nursing care, of course, at least at first, Doctor Watson," Maggie Oakton consults a small notebook in her lap.

They have finished with their meal and again, Sherlock notes the tiny amount of food that actually made its way into his Army doctor's mouth. John looks tired - again - still.

Sherlock frowns and wonders if the medication that Doctor Merit has him on will, in fact, stop any further attacks or just tone them down some. He decides time will tell. Thinking back, John has had an attack, while awake, every second or third day, give or take a few hours, since he woke up in St. Anne's. He definitely counts the ones he has noticed while John was sleeping, the arching of the spine, the tremors that shake the doctor's body, the sweat that pours from the doctors' body.

He glances again at John, who is leaning back in bed, his eyes closed, while he listens to Maggie Oakton.

"All right," John says in that same tired whisper. "How do we arrange that?"

Timing, they say, is everything.

"Oh good, you're both here."

Both men look up; John opens his eyes, to stare at their doorway. Lori Hansen stands there, still in her coat and scarf, beams at them. Maggie Oakton looks up inquiringly.

Lori steps into the room, hesitates. "If this is a bad time," she says. As she speaks, she takes her coat off and holds it over her right arm.

Sherlock glances at John who finally looks back at him. They both ask the question with their eyes, then both dismiss it. Too dangerous. Sherlock sighs and nods at John. Nurse Lori Hansen has given enough to the cause. They won't ask her.

Sherlock stands. "Lori Hansen, this is Doctor Maggie Oakton."

He turns to Maggie. "Lori took care of John while he was a prisoner. Ms. Hansen is an RN."

Maggie gets up from her seat, extends a hand to Lori, who takes it unhesitatingly.

"Hello," Maggie glances at Sherlock, who shakes his head imperceptibly.

"Hi, Lori," says John. He smiles at her, but it's a tired smile and she notes it.

"I just stopped by to see how Doctor Watson was doing – and to give you the good news."

She comes forward and Sherlock sees her left hand before everyone does. But he says nothing; let's her have her moment.

She comes first to the far side of John's bed, brushes a quick kiss along his hairline, studies his lined face for a second or two, then pulls back slightly and holds out her left hand. John raises one eyebrow. He takes her left hand in his right one.

Sherlock notes John keeps his left by his side, clutched in the sheets.

"Wow, Lori, that's great." He examines the ring, its single sweetheart diamond set in gold, then looks up at her shining face.

"Really great. Who's the lucky – oh, Officer Rodriguez." His harsh tone softens somewhat but she still flinches slightly when she hears him speak.

She dismisses it and nods happily, looks at the ring, then comes round to show it off to Sherlock who makes the appropriate comments, while John looks daggers at him.

"Excellent news," the detective drawls. He glances at John, then back at Lori Hansen.

Maggie smiles at her. "Congratulations. I take it this is – unexpected?"

Lori nods. "Well, not entirely, but I thought he'd wait longer." She brings the ring up to eye level, grins happily at it. Lori looks at John, who looks back at her with a sad smile.

Suddenly her heart goes out to the doctor she tried so hard so save. She imagines that she succeeded in some small part, in saving his life. But she failed in others.

She smiles at him and for just one moment, John feels as if the two of them are alone in the room. He remembers their shared agony in the hallway, there in the lower levels of the Wellington. He realizes that some small part of him is sad to lose the brave young woman. If not for her ... he glances at Sherlock and wonders if the detective even realizes what the two of them – John and Lori Hansen – shared.

Sherlock looks steadily at John, and John feels his heart turn over. Suddenly, he wants nothing more than for everyone to leave his room, everyone except Sherlock Holmes.

Lori comes over to John, puts one small slim hand on his wrist and leans over to brush her lips, again, over his cheek.

"Thank you," she whispers "Thank you for everything."

She shrugs back into her coat, stops and looks from the tall detective – back to John Watson, who sits there, exhausted beyond belief, in his hospital bed. Her eyes suddenly fill with tears.

"I'll – we'll send you an invitation as soon as we have it all figured out."

She nods once at Maggie. "Very nice to meet you, Doctor Oakton."

Maggie flashes her a quick grin. "Be happy," she says.

Lori nods. "I intend to," she grins.

At the door, she turns and looks at John. "It wasn't entirely unexpected," she says. "It's just that – well, Joe says, you just never know how much time you have, until it's taken away. So we're not going to wait. I know Valentine weddings are so cliché, but frankly, I don't care. Joe's right."

She deliberately looks at Sherlock Holmes, and repeats slowly, "You just never know how much time you have – until it's taken away."

Then Lori nods again at John, and she's gone.

There is dead silence for a moment.

Maggie Oakton looks at Sherlock. "I take it there was a reason you did not want to ask her to act as Doctor Watson's nurse."

It is John's hoarse whisper that answers her. "Too dangerous. She's happy and tiny and " he breaks off and looks at his partner, who looks at him.

"Too dangerous," says Sherlock. He and John nod at each other.

Maggie considers thoughtfully. "Now that I've met Ms. Hansen, I'm not sure I totally agree. It would have been a rather – ideal solution. Still…"

She looks at John's files, in her hands, then back up at John, then Sherlock. "But, from what I have read of Doctor Watson's – John's time spent in Moriarty's hands – well, perhaps you are both right. Perhaps Ms. Hansen has given above and beyond the call of duty."

She flashes that quick bright smile and her brilliant green eyes fill with mischief.

"Which is yet another reason why I am going with the two of you tonight. John will need an attending physician to work out the details of his rehab process. And William and I are still going over the medications he has Doctor Watson on. I might want to make changes in those. We won't know for certain for a few days. And of course, Mycroft and I discussed this before I came up here today."

Both men look at her, more or less speechless.

She glances from one man to the other. "I've known your brother for some time Sherlock. This "visit" was prearranged once he knew of John's condition. I just had things to attend to before I could leave my own practice for an unspecified period of time. So-o, the upshot is - I intend to tag along for a while."

She looks from the man in the hospital bed to his tall companion.

"I hope that's acceptable," she says.

OooOooO

Sherlock Holmes hears the text chime, nods at Maggie Oakton and leaves John with her while they discuss his immediate care. She can fill him in later that night. He leaves the door to John's room open, and has a word with Agents Lynn and Enders. They both nod and one of them, Enders this time, comes to stand just inside the door.

Maggie and John do their best to ignore him. He's used to it and tries his best to give them their privacy by more or less staring at nothing in particular.

Sherlock walks to the waiting area, before he reads his text. At his request, Mycroft has sent both a description of Maggie Oakton, and a photograph, as well as some of her educational credentials.

He sits in one of the frankly uncomfortable chairs and reads. Then he sighs and sends a quick acknowledgment to Mycroft. Maggie's photo, credentials and description all check out.

He then asks regarding Agents Lynn and Enders outside John's room. Mycroft's reply comes quickly.

**Do you think I would risk John – again?**

**MH**

Sherlock narrows his eyes. He and his brother are definitely going to have a talk soon. Sherlock has not missed the occasional glances Mycroft Holmes has sent John Watson's way. The next time it occurs, he will knock Mycroft flat.

" _And wouldn't a certain Army doctor just love **that** scenario,"_ he muses.

On the other hand, Mycroft could have meant this sentiment exactly the way he wrote it – nothing else.

Sherlock fidgets. He is on edge. They all are. The sooner they are away from St. Anne's, the better. He will be able to think more clearly. His thought processes always seem so _unclear_ when it comes to John.

He glances at his watch. Four hours to go before Op Safehouse, as Mycroft refers to it. He looks down the hallway toward John's room. He wishes they could speed it up. But he is aware that the actions they are about to take require precise timing. He will not do anything to interfere with that.

He wonders, briefly, if Maggie Oakton will leave John and him alone for a while before the time comes to leave St. Anne's. It is a situation devoutly to be wished. He and a certain Army doctor could definitely use some privacy.

Sherlock goes out to have a smoke. Outside St. Anne's, in the frigid air, in the deepening evening light, he plunges his hands in the pocket of his coat to pull out the cigarette pack and his fingers encounter something sharp-edged and metallic.

He pulls out John's dog tags, which he has either worn or carried with him since they were sent to him at the Yard - covered in John's blood.

Sherlock smokes with one hand, while rubbing the inscription on the tags with the gloved fingers of his other hand. Over and over he traces the words stamped on the metal. He has not returned them to John because they would have to just be set aside again due to the fact they are metal and because of the x-rays, MRI's, etc. that John has endured here in St. Anne's.

He supposes, if John thinks about them at all, that the doctor assumes they were irretrievably lost there in the Wellington.

Sherlock has either worn them around his neck, under his shirt, on those days when he knows John will not notice or carried them in his pocket. At times, they have acted as his talisman, his touchstone, a connection he has with John – of which John is not even aware.

He grinds out the cigarette butt under his heel and stares down at the dog tags, brightened due to the constant polishing they receive from the detective's leather gloves and because of the deliberate polishing they received at Anderson's hands before he returned them to Sherlock.

He hears again Lori Hansen's' quiet voice. "You just never know how much time you have – until it's taken away."

As he rubs his gloved fingers over and over the surface of the tags, an idea forms in his mind. He at first dismisses it, but it will not go away.

Finally, Sherlock drops the tags back in his coat pocket and tilts his head back to breathe in the frigid evening air. It puffs out in front of him, a small cloud, and dissipates as he looks at the early evening sky and at one bright star now visible just above the horizon.

Hansen's intended is right. No one ever knows how much time they have – until there is no time at all. And they try desperately to get back what they have lost.

He shuts his eyes and thinks of that heart-stopping moment, just a few nights ago, when he stood over John's sleeping form there in his hospital bed. He gripped the bed rails and realized as he watched John sleep the sleep of pure exhaustion and sweet release, that the doctor had consented to be his life partner. That they would belong to each other _– to each other_ – for as long as they had together.

Sherlock opens his eyes and stares at the evening sky _._

_For as long as they have,_ he muses. _For as long as they have._

_And how long will that be, exactly,_ thinks the detective? _How many times has John Watson been hurt, injured chasing after him? How many times has he – Sherlock – been nearly killed in the pursuit of this determination to see justice done – in pursuit of the game - how many times has he awoken in hospital to find a certain Army doctor sitting vigil by his bedside? And how many times has that scenario been reversed? Like now. Particularly now._

_And when will one – or both – of them run out of time? When, exactly?_

_For John Watson, that time first came three weeks back – when his breathing – and his heart - stopped, there in the SUV, while he lay, unmoving, white-faced, in Sherlock Holmes' arms in that damn vehicle._

_John's heart stopped – and so did Sherlock Holmes'._

He frowns first at his sentimentality, which he would have discounted if you had told him he would one day be standing there, thinking those types of thoughts about anyone, let alone an Army doctor, a former Captain in the RAMC. He would have laughed in derision. And gone back to whatever experiment he had cooking in the flat.

But that was then and this is now.

Sherlock looks at the sky. It is going to be one hell of a beautiful evening. Frigidly cold. But beautiful.

He walks back into St. Anne's, thoughtful, quiet.

As he passes the nurses' station, Sherlock hesitates, then turns to the same older nurse with the lovely Scottish accent and the quietly beautiful face. He tells her what he needs. She frowns, thinks.

"Wait a second, Mr. Holmes." She turns to speak to one of the nurses' behind her. Who shakes her head.

Then she talks to another one, who nods quickly. The young nurse hurries to her desk, around the corner of the station. He hears a drawer open. She returns and brings him something held out on the palm of her hand. "Will this do, Mr. Holmes?"

He glances down at the object in her hand and nods at her. She hands it to him, letting the simple chain fall into his palm, on top of his glove.

"Please keep it. I only used it to hold my keys and I use a lanyard for that now, as I was always misplacing them."

He nods his thanks again and drops the simple box chain into his pocket.

Sherlock walks back into John's hospital room to find the doctor deep in discussion with Maggie Oakton.

They both look up at him. But the detective only has eyes for John Watson.

And John only has eyes for Sherlock Holmes.

OooOooO

Maggie Oakton stretches. She stands up and walks to the window to glance out at the deepening sky.

Then she turns around. "Gentlemen, I imagine you both have things to discuss about John's – Doctor Watson's discharge and the subsequent plans to get him away from St. Anne's. And William should bring his discharge papers any moment now."

She looks around for her coat and purse. As she shrugs into the camel-colored wool, she smiles at Sherlock, as if reading his mind.

"I have a hotel room fairly close by and need to go take care of a few things before we leave this evening." She consults her watch. "Three hours left."

She picks up her notes, and that includes the stack of John's medical records. She goes to John and holds out her hand. Surprised, he takes it. She smiles at him. That quick bright smile.

And John Watson smiles back.

"Delighted to be working with you, Doctor Watson." She turns to Sherlock and just nods, as if she knows that he does not like shaking hands with anyone.

"I'll be back later, just before – well," She breaks off and picks up her purse and walks to the door of John's room. She exchanges pleasantries with the agents at the door, then leaves.

Sherlock glances at John. They are finally alone.

OooOooO

The detective looks at John, then walks to the door. A word, then Agent Enders comes into the room to stand watch. Sherlock goes to the nurse's station, requests his and John's shaving razors, and returns with them in his palm.

Ignoring John's stares, Sherlock crosses to the loo and closes the door behind him.

After showering and changing, he looks at his reflection in the mirror. His dark curls are damp. He does the best he can with a towel but it just makes them more riotous. Sherlock sighs, then fishes out John Watson's dog tags. And the simple chain she gave him.

He gets his mobile out of his pocket, types in a few web addresses and does some quick reading. Once he has the information committed to memory, he drops his phone into his jacket pocket, drops the dog tags into the pocket of his jeans and goes out to meet his fate at John Watson's hands.

He hopes the doctor will be merciful.

OooOooO

When Sherlock comes out of the bath, he stands there, quietly amused. John sits on the side of his bed and Enders sits opposite him, the small table between them. They are playing cards. Gin he supposes since that is one of two card games he knows John actually has indulged in. That and poker.

"Anndd," Enders puts his cards on the table, fanned out. John groans.

"Got you again, Doctor Watson. Too bad we were only playing for points." Enders glances Sherlock's way, gathers up the cards and stands, moving the small table back out of the way.

The detective shakes his head. "No, don't go yet."

He mentally sighs and crosses over to John to stand in front of him.

John looks up at Sherlock, then blinks and looks again. The detective is wearing the same slim black jeans and dark silk shirt he wore on the day of John's rescue – but there is no way that John would remember that. And he doesn't.

He does a slight double take, however, as Sherlock stands in front of him, tall, dark and impossibly slim in the dark clothes. He looks dangerous.

And imminently kissable.

John has to fight the urge to lick his lips and tackle said detective to the ground and take him right there, by force if necessary.

As he looks into his partner's eyes, John doubts that the force part will be necessary.

There is a moment's silence.

Agent Enders clears his throat. "You needed me to stay, Sir?"

Sherlock shakes his head slightly, forces himself to look away from John's blue gaze and put his attention on Mycroft's man, who stands there patiently.

"Yes, Agent Enders. This is the hateful part." He looks at John again and sighs deeply.

"John, I need to shave you before we leave tonight. And –"

John looks murder at him and rethinks tackling the detective to the ground to kiss him. Maybe he'll just knock him out instead.

"You want me restrained?" his voice is hoarse and sounds slightly incredulous.

Sherlock nods miserably. Enders glances from one of the men to the other. He clears his throat.

"Gentlemen, I believe that, well, if I stand next to Doctor Watson, I would be able to interpret any – movement – he might make and –"

John snorts in disgust. "Oh for Christ's sake, just get on with it."

He glances at the restraints on the bed rails, then shakes his head. "There is no way this is going to work."

He looks up at Enders, who just raises an eyebrow. Sherlock stands and waits.

_Staring. Again with the staring,_ John thinks.

John looks at Sherlock's face – then tiredly holds out his wrists to Enders.

Enders looks at the detective, who nods once.

The agent sighs and brings a pair of cuffs from his back pocket, then cuffs John Watson's hands together at the wrist. John lowers his cuffed hands into his lap. And continues to look murder at Sherlock Holmes.

Sherlock goes back to the loo, brings out John's shaving supplies and sets them on the small table in front of the doctor. Enders takes up his position by the door and more or less tries to ignore the proceedings and give them as much privacy as is possible under the circumstances.

Sherlock sits in the chair in front of John and looks into his Army doctor's blue eyes, still startlingly blue this evening. John's eyes are usually unfathomably darker.

He swallows, then pulls the bowl of water toward him and tries to ignore the murderous looks the doctor is literally throwing his way. His cuffed hands lie in his lap. Sherlock notes John's left hand barely shakes.

He smiles, moves the bowl of water closer to him and picks up the shaving cream.

As he slowly spreads shaving cream over John's jaw, he leans forward and whispers, "This is not exactly the scenario I picture when I think of you in handcuffs."

Then he leans back and picks up John's safety razor. The doctor stares at him, then suddenly grins a murderous little grin that sets Sherlock's groin aflame.

" _God,"_ he thinks. " _This is just – no, no words. Just God….,"_ he begins to carefully shave his partner.

John shows no mercy. He tilts his head this way and that, never removing his eyes from Sherlock's At one point he leans slightly forward, fixes the detective with a deep blue stare – and slowly licks his lips.

Sherlock groans. "Stop that," he whispers. He carefully moves the razor over John's jaw, then gently wipes away the foam.

John just smiles sunnily at him. He fixes Sherlock with a deep blue gaze and leans forward again, whispers into Sherlock's ear. "Make me," he breathes.

"I mean it, John Watson, stop that right now," he breathes into John's skin. He moves to swipe the razor over John's right cheek. John shuts his eyes, hums softly.

Sherlock's hands nearly jerk. He takes a deep breath, steadies himself and finishes with John's right cheek. He wipes the damp towel over John's skin, then sits back to look at the doctor.

Said doctor opens his eyes – and stares right into said detective's pale grayish- blue orbs.

Both men blink. And begin to breathe a little more heavily.

He begins to shave John's left cheek. John just turns his head toward him, to be helpful, of course, and continues to hum, a little thrumming noise, deep in his throat. At one point, he sighs and his hands twitch in his lap. Right. The hands that are currently – er, cuffed together. John moves his cuffed wrists slightly against the fabric of Sherlock's jeans. Just slightly. Just – enough.

Sherlock stops shaving John. Swallows again. Then his eyes narrow.

"I swear to Christ, John, if you don't stop right now –"

"You'll do – _what_ \- exactly?" asks the doctor, quietly amused. He turns his head just enough to look straight into Sherlock's amazing eyes.

" _Nearly crystalline tonight,"_ thinks John. " _Crystalline and blue. Most excellent_."

He repeats in a whisper. "Or you'll do – _what_ – exactly?"

Sherlock picks up the razor again and gently, so gently, moves down John's left cheek.

His deep baritone drops to a more intimate level and he bends toward John's left ear. Yes, _that_ ear.

"Or I'll handcuff you to the rails of this bed, rip off those delightful oh-so-tight jeans – and spread you open and take you right here ... no foreplay, no lube," he breathes. He sits back and wipes John's face with the towel. "And that's a promise," he says softly.

John just grins at him happily. "You and whose army?" he asks wickedly.

Sherlock shuts his eyes – and groans softly.

Enders tries very hard to ignore all of this, finally turns his back on the two and stares out the open door into the hallway. "Christ Jesus," he breathes. He never knew the simple act of shaving could be so – erotic. He reminds himself to try it on Anthony when he gets home later that evening.

Or the next morning. He has no idea, really, how long it will take to get the pair of them to the agreed-upon destination, get them settled safely and get back home again. He sighs once. Anthony might just have to wait. Enders wonders if he will be able to wait. He turns his back even more, straightens his shoulders and dutifully thinks of cleaning his gun.

"There," says Sherlock at last. He wipes John's face carefully with the damp towel. Looks at John one more time, then leans forward and kisses John right on the lips.

There is a moment of more or less enthusiastic participation from both parties concerned.

Then the detective sighs, pulls back and stands. He leans over and brushes his lips across John's forehead. John shuts his eyes.

"Agent Enders?"

Enders turns toward them, raises an eyebrow. Sherlock nods. Enders comes over quickly, fishes his keys out of his pocket and opens the handcuffs. John just nods at him once.

Sherlock crosses to the loo, retrieves his own razor, then comes back and hands Enders both razors.

"I think we'll be fine now until it's time —"

Enders nods curtly. "Yes sir. I'll just take these to the nurse's station, Sir." He crosses to the door quickly, opens it and walks out, shuts the door quietly behind him.

Outside, he gets his breathing under control, then takes the razors over to hand them to the Scottish nurse, who just smiles at him and drops them in a plastic bag. When he comes back, Lynn stares curiously at him. "You all right?" he says.

"Fine," says Enders. "I'm fine. Loo break right now." He walks off down the hall. Quickly.

Lynn just nods once and stares after him.

OooOooO

There is silence there in John Watson's hospital room in St. Anne's.

Sherlock stands and looks at John. They both know that nothing further can happen that evening. Too little time. And Maggie Oakton could walk back in at any time. Or anyone, for that matter.

And at that exact moment, the door opens, and one of the night nurses' comes in.

She smiles at them both, her hands full of John's discharge papers. "I'll just leave these here."

She addresses the good doctor. "Doctor Watson, all you have to do is sign where indicated. I've tagged the pages with paper clips. And you can wait until five minutes before you leave. Whichever one of us comes in to remove your ID tags will take the copies." She smiles at them again. At the door, she turns toward them both.

"I just want you both to know, well, it's been a pleasure caring for you, Doctor Watson. We all hated the circumstances but we all wish you the very best, both of you. And please remember to send us an invitation to the wedding. Every nurse on this floor wants to attend."

She smiles once again, then leaves, closes the door quietly behind her. It shuts with a definite click.

Silence.

Sherlock glances at John. Hesitates _._

_No_ , he thinks, briefly furious with himself _. No. No more hesitating. Not with John. Not now. Not ever again._

He stands in front of John, who sits quietly on the side of the bed and looks upward at Sherlock.

He reaches behind John's bed and clicks on the low light. Then he crosses to the door and turns off the overhead bright light. The both of them are now more or less in muted darkness. The world outside John's window has gone purple and soft.

Sherlock Holmes crosses back to stand in front of John for a second, fingering something he holds in his pocket. Suddenly, he drops to his knees in front of John Watson.

He lays his shaggy head in John's lap and John unhesitatingly brings his hands up to run his fingers through the dark, tumbled curls.

Sherlock shuts his eyes. His heart beat sounds loud in his ears. He brings his hand out of his pocket and clutches John's legs with both hands.

"John." The detective sighs.

"Sherlock?" John tightens his hands in the curls. He wants nothing more at this moment in time than to take Sherlock Holmes and get the hell out of St. Anne's. He cannot even think ahead to his own situation or how Doctor Merit and Doctor Oakton are going to help him. _Help them,_ he corrects himself.

He just knows he is tired beyond belief and needs to be alone with Sherlock. Alone in bed would be lovely, but that's not going to happen any time soon. _So – just alone._

John cannot think ahead to the next attack, _if it comes,_ he corrects himself. _If it comes_.

His world has narrowed to include just the two of them; he only has time and energy and attention to give to this man under his hands.

His heart thrums with love for the detective, now gone so quiet.

_Not quite two hours to go,_ John thinks.

Sherlock raises his head to look directly into John's eyes. He reaches into his pocket and brings something up in his hand.

"John," he says, staring upward into John's eyes. "John…" He holds out his hand. John frowns slightly, glances at Sherlock's open palm, which shakes slightly.

His dog tags, brightly polished sit on the detective's outstretched palm. He looks at them, then into his partner's eyes. Slowly, John Watson reaches out. But instead of the one familiar chain holding both tags, there seem to be two chains, each with its own tag. He holds one up in wonder. He had supposed them lost back there in the Wellington.

Sherlock Holmes sits back on his knees, raises the remaining chain in his hand and looks at the shining slightly dented tag.

His voice, when it comes, is a hoarse whisper.

"I, Sherlock, take thee, John," he raises the chain toward John, who looks back at him wide-eyed for a second, then he slowly lowers his head. Sherlock uses both hands to place the chain around John's neck.

John Watson takes the remaining chain he holds in his hand, grins and places it around his friend's shaggy head.

He repeats, more or less in the same harsh whisper.

"I, John, take thee, Sherlock" the chain goes easily over the tumbled curls and he lowers it gently around the pale neck.

Sherlock lets the chain fall, then he straightens out the tag with his clever fingers so it lies flat against John's chest, on top of the dark blue shirt and next to the soft jumper John wears. It shines in the darkness.

"To have and to Hold from this day forward, for better for worse"

For richer, for poorer,"

John slowly repeats the words. He reaches out a slightly shaking hand and adjusts the tag so it lies flat against the pale marble skin. It glows against the dark silk of Sherlock's shirt. His eyes fill.

He repeats softly: "To have and to hold from this day forward, for better for worse

For richer, for poorer."

Sherlock shuts his eyes, and continues,

"In Sickness and in health, to love and to cherish"…

And in John's quiet whisper, "In Sickness and in Health, to love and to Cherish"

Sherlock opens his crystalline eyes and gazes into John's dark blue ones.

"Till death do us part."

"Till death do us part."

John stares into those alien eyes and thinks he could die happy, gently, at that very moment. And count his life as being full and worthwhile.

"With this – er – dog tag, I thee wed,' Sherlock leans forward and upward slightly, kisses John on the lips. John kisses the detective's soft lips and smiles gently against them.

"With this dog tag, I thee wed,"

Sherlock continues. He never looks away from John's quiet gaze. His hands seek out John's.

"With my body I thee worship" – he kisses John Watson again, softly,

"And with all my worldly goods I thee endow."

John holds on to Sherlock's hands. The detective grips them with intensity. He repeats softly.

"With my body I thee worship and with all my worldly goods I thee endow."

He leans forward, and rests his forehead on Sherlock's. Both men close their eyes.

Sherlock nods once, under John's patient hands.

They both say, quietly, "Amen."

And both men sit there, foreheads touching, eyes closed, and just breathe, there in the soft silence of John Watson's hospital room, in St. Anne's.

Outside their window, the dark purple of evening deepens into velvet. The same brilliant planet Sherlock saw earlier twinkles above the quiet city.

_One hour to go._

OooOooO


	6. Chapter 6

**These characters in their current incarnation belong to the BBC and in their original incarnation, to the estate of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.**

**THE BOYS OF BAKER STREET**

**CH. 6**

**WARNINGS: Minor character death; homophobic slurs; violence; murder and attempted murder; violent death; drug use; and the wanton destruction of one really lovely vintage Volkswagen Beatle – baby blue.**

**NOTE: This ongoing work is a Trilogy.  This is Book Two.   This work occasionally references events that occurred in Book One:  THERE BUT FOR THE GRACE OF JOHN WATSON. If you have not read that work, you might not "get" some of the references in this story. You might want to stop right here and go read GRACE first, then come back to BOYS.  Otherwise, your reading experience will not have the intensity that I labored so hard to create for you.**

OooOooO

**"The Best Laid Plans o' Mice and Men, Gang aft Agley."**

**Robert Burns.**

**Translation: “Sometimes, you’re just plain fucked.”**

OooOooO

Maggie Oakton nods at the men at the door, then lets herself quietly into John's room – and stops at the door in amazement.

Both men appear to be asleep.

John lies on the bed, his arms by his side. He is covered over by a blanket.

Sherlock sits in the chair by John's bed, his curly head lies on a small pillow, cradled next to John's arm.

John's hand is on Sherlock's head – his fingers tangled in the dark curls.

Neither man acknowledges her when she comes in. Neither one of them awaken or open their eyes.

It is a testament to their calmness in what is an obvious emergency, to their respect and trust in each other, that they can sleep at such a time.

Or maybe it's just that both of them are totally, completely exhausted. The room is dark and cool and they have some time yet before – she glances at her watch. Then looks around the room.

She can see John's boots sitting on the floor next to his bed and what appear to be two coats – and a jacket – tossed over the end of the bed, preparatory to their leaving soon. She sees what she supposes to be John's discharge papers, sitting on the small table. The only light comes from the small loo – and from the street lighting that streams in from the window.

At the foot of John's bed, there are two tote bags – one a smallish beat-up duffle bag, canvas, she recognizes the type used in the military - and one an expensive-looking leather carry-on. She supposes their things are in both bags.

She wonders why they don't simply stop by their flat to get what they need instead of cramming their clothes into two such relatively small bags.

She wonders again, not for the first time, why Sherlock and Mycroft have insisted that John be discharged this evening, rather than wait for the morning. It seems to Maggie that driving in the daylight would be so much easier. She knows there is a definite threat against the men, and it seems to be directed toward Doctor Watson, but Mycroft appears to have all that in hand now. She doesn't quite understand everything about this rather hurried departure. And Mycroft, being well, Mycroft, has not told her much. Actually, Mycroft Holmes has told her next to nothing.

But she's always respected his opinion and she feels she owes him for championing her cause a few years back when – well, best not to think about all of that right now. She is, however, keenly aware that more is going on that she has been told. She will insist, at the first opportunity, that she be told what it is.

But in the meantime, she owes Mycroft and has agreed to take on Doctor Watson's case and that is that, as far as she is concerned. Besides, now that she has met John Watson – and his enigmatic companion, Sherlock Holmes – she finds herself intrigued. And she wants to be of assistance to Mycroft and if by helping his brother and his companion, she can help Mycroft, then she intends to do her best.

She shrugs and backs out of the room. She'll go wait outside until Sherlock comes to find her. She does not want to awaken the men, not when for once, both of them are resting. She can use the time to go over John Watson's file again. Frankly, it intrigues her and she needs to re-familiarize herself with parts of it. And – most important – she needs to re-familiarize herself with John's meds schedule as Bill has laid it out for her. She wants to look at his chart and figure out, more or less, to the minute, when he can have another shot of the medication that will, hopefully, ward off an attack. He has been off medication for approximately four hours. She frowns when she realizes this fact.

Maggie feels a hand on her shoulder and turns to face one of the men who guard John's door. He looks at her, then nods toward the nurse's station. One of the nurses is trying to catch her attention.

Maggie pulls the door to John's room nearly closed, so as not to disturb the sleeping men, and crosses to the nurse's station. The senior nurse, the one with the charming Scottish accent, hands her two sheets of paper.

"This came over our fax earlier and appears to be addressed to Mr. Holmes. Would you be good enough to give it to him when he wakes up?"

Maggie nods, takes the sheets, which are folded in half, then wonders why the nurse couldn't simply go in and hand them to Sherlock in person.

The nurse smiles. "We see Mr. Holmes sleep so seldom, that we dinna want to wake him up. One of us looked in on them a moment ago and well, if you'll just hand that to him later, I'd appreciate it."

"Of course," Maggie says. She turns toward John's room, thinks for a second, then turns back.

The head nurse – her name tag simply says **McBride** \- smiles at her inquiringly.

Maggie considers her question for a second.

"Doctor Watson has been here – what – nearly three weeks?"

She nods, "Yes, that's right. He was unconscious for over five days when he was first brought in."

Maggie leans conspiratorially over the desk and looks straight into Nurse McBride's eyes.

"I appear to have thrown in my lot with these two gentlemen as Doctor Watson's psychological counselor and as his immediate care physician, at least for the time being, and I wonder if you have any –"

"Hints? Tips?" smiles the nurse. Maggie nods.

She thinks for a second, then grins. "Doctor Watson is a lamb – to be fair to the good doctor – he has been unconscious so long and had such a hard time of it when he has been awake, that I'm afraid I canna give you much 'direction' about his character and habits. Other than the fact that most of my nurses seem to have a mild crush on the man."

She pointedly does not address John's suicide attempt and Maggie respects the woman even more when she notes this omission. Maggie, of course, knows all about it. Neither woman brings it up, however.

Maggie nods encouragingly. "And Sherl— Mr. Holmes?"

McBride smiles broadly. Her eyes twinkle. "Well, aside from the fact that his family now appears to er own a rather substantial portion of St. Anne's, all I can say about Sherlock Holmes is this: he can be abrupt to the point of rudeness; utterly maddening in his single-minded intensity; run roughshod over you, should you - heaven forbid - attempt to interrupt him during one of his diatribes; and woe to anyone who comes between him and his partner – Doctor Watson – if even by accident."

She straightens up and turns to speak to one of her nurses, then tosses her last statement over her shoulder to Maggie. "I wouldna' want to be in that person's shoes."

Maggie nods her thanks, then turns to look at the door to John's room thoughtfully.

OooOooO

Lori stands in the outer room outside DI Lestrade's office at the Yard, waiting for Joe to take her home. He has been called back into Lestrade's office and seems to be in conference with the DI at the moment, and there are several other officers in there with them, as well. She watches the proceedings through the glass wall, finally sets her purse down, takes off her coat and sits at one of the desks, tapping her fingers on the desk edge. From time to time, she glances at her engagement ring and grins. A few officers work away behind her. She ignores them and they ignore her. _It is maddeningly quiet at this time of night,_ she thinks.

Lestrade's door opens and Sally Donovan comes out into the room. She glances at Lori, hesitates, then comes over to have a word.

Lori smiles at her. She likes Donovan, what little she knows of the woman, and frankly admires her curly hair. Like most people with silky straight hair, Lori envies those with curls.

Donovan stops in front of her, crosses her arms over her chest and says, "Okay, let's see it then."

Lori grins, holds up her left hand. Sally takes her hand and turns it this way and that. The diamond catches the light and tosses back little rays of color.

"Wow. Joe did good." She releases Lori's hand, winks at the tiny nurse and smiles. "Congratulations. And I'm glad to see that some guys are still getting it right."

Lori laughs. "It's kind of sudden, I know—"

Donovan shakes her head. "Not if it feels right. Too sudden doesn't even come into it."

Lori nods. "That's what Joe and I think. We're aiming for a Valentines' wedding."

Donovan stares at her. "Now that takes guts, I have to say."

Lori laughs and smiles. "We know it's a cliché but Joe doesn't want to wait and you know what, Sergeant Donovan? Neither do I."

Sally just nods. "Call me Sally. Now that you're joining our little family – anyway, sounds like a plan and I had better get an invite soon. I wouldn't miss seeing Joe get hitched for the world."

She glances back at Lestrade's office. She and Hansen can clearly see Joe Rodriguez and several other officers standing around Lestrade's desk, deep in conversation.

Donovan looks down at Lori, hesitates. "Listen, do you need a ride home or something? I know it's pretty late and I know Joe would not want you to catch a cab home at this hour."

Lori looks at her in puzzlement. "Actually, my car is parked below. But Joe and I were- What do you mean, 'catch a cab? I was going home with Joe-"

She looks at Donovan's suddenly serious expression, then glances at the men in Lestrade's office, clearly visible through the glass partition. 'Unless something has –"

Sally just nods. "Yes, I'm afraid something has happened. One of our officers is out with flu and Joe has just been called in to cover his duties tonight. Joe will be one of the drivers who—" she abruptly breaks off as Lestrade sticks his head out the door.

"Donovan?" Lestrade glances from her to Lori Hansen, raises an eyebrow.

"Coming." Donovan glances back at Lori. "Listen, just sit tight. I'll send Joe out to you as soon as the DI can spare him." She stops at the door to Lestrade's inner office. Glances back at the tiny nurse. "Get used to being married to a Yarder, this happens all the time. This – meeting - might take a few minutes."

Lori nods and sighs. _Looks like it's going to be a long night._

OooOooO

Stephan Yanni follows her, watches her drive into the car park at the Yard – he presumes she has some sort of pass she shows them. He glances at the screen of his cell, which sits in its cradle on his dash. A tiny blip indicates that the tracking device works perfectly. She hasn't moved her car since parking. He circles the Yard, twice, then finds an all-night store not too far away. He pulls up, stops his engine and just sits there for a moment – and watches the blip.

He is scared to death.

Then he yanks the dark cap further down his head to help hide his bright hair from the CCTV cameras and walks in to buy a drink and chips. He thinks back over the past few hours.

He argued with them, at first. _Just do it and get it over with_ , he told them. But they insisted he follow her home, wait for nightfall, for darkness. But then they tell him she is dating one of the Yarders, as they call them. And once he thinks this through, he knows there is no guarantee she will remain in her flat all night. So he ignores their admonition to wait for total darkness. Twilight will have to do. And in the end, it all worked out anyway.

The spaces in front of her flat are full, so she has to park a block away and walk back. He can see all of this from his advantage point less than one block away. He parks several spaces down, watches her use her key to enter the building, then switches off his engine and gets out of the car. There is no reason she would even be looking for him and no guarantee she would recognize him, from that far away, even if she does notice him.

And, it is freakish cold and no one is out on the streets. In the end, all he has to do is walk quickly back to her bright blue VW bug and - it is remarkably easy, after all, just as they said it would be.

Now that he has worked up the courage, he intends to get this over and done with as quickly as possible. To hell with the bastards, anyway. And the threat to his sister and niece –

Once at her car, he bends down to check the tag to make sure he has the right car. He flashes the tiny torch once; he can clearly read the tag. Then he straightens up and glances around. All clear.

Stephan clenches his hands in the gloves, then gets to work. It takes less than a minute, just as they said it would. He walks determinedly back to his car, gets in, starts the engine and drives away.

Now he sits in his car, not far from the Yard and waits. Eventually, he will have to pull away from this parking lot, and find another place to wait. But that will not be difficult. He just needs to follow her once the chip starts to move.

And if it doesn't – he glances at his watch. They have given him two alternatives – just in case. The desired outcome is to follow her once she leaves the Yard and gets back out on the road. Then push the bloody button. The backup plan, well, if the stupid blip never moves, the plan is to just wait for morning, wait for the parking lots to be more or less full, circle the Yard again and just do it. He glances down at the passenger seat and at the small unassuming black control that sits there in its tiny box.

He could just push it now, drive away, drive home. Try to get some sleep. Tell them later that something must have happened. If not for his sister and niece -

In the end, he sits there, drinks the soft drink, eats the chips, then when he realizes the convenience store clerk is eyeing him through the window, he starts his engine and leaves.

He'll find another place close to the Yard parking lot. And wait some more.

He parks once more and glances at the dash – finally, FINALLY, the blip moves. The stupid bitch is back on the road.

He doesn't see her pull out, but the blip indicates she has. And in the end, all he has to do is follow her out to the main road. Once they pass most of the city traffic, he should be able to pick her up easily enough.

His hands have not stopped shaking.

OooOooO

Jim looks up from the computer screen at Billings.

The ex-military man walks into the back office where Jim has more or less staked out territory, his hands in his pockets. He comes to stand in from of Jim – and waits.

"Well?" Jim leans back slightly to stare at his new Lieutenant.

Mick Billings shakes his head, walks around to an empty seat and sits back, crosses his legs at the ankles. He regards his new employer.

"Dead." He stares at Jim, waits for a response.

Jim smiles and swivels back to the monitor. "Good," he muses. "Two down—"

"Nope. Not what I meant," Billings uncrosses his legs, leans forward, his hands in his lap. He stares at Jim Moriarty.

"You sent me there to 'take care' of victim number two – to make certain that his death coincides with that report." Mick indicates the pile of papers sitting next to Jim.

Jim swivels back to Billings, frowns. "And," he says slowly, "be quite careful here, Billings, because I am this far from being – perturbed."

Billings sits back and regards the little man in front of him. "I'm telling you – he's dead. But he was dead when I got there." He stands, takes his mobile out of his jacket pocket, thumbs through the photo gallery, pauses, then walks to Jim and hands him the phone.

Jim takes it and glances at the photo. He frowns, then looks up at Mick Billings.

"What the hell happened to him?" he demands.

Mick Billings shrugs. "All I know is there was no bullet wound, no sign of forced entry, no obvious wounds or damage to the body. No bruising. The man was simply lying there on the floor of his house, dead. Telly was on."

He takes his phone back from Jim Moriarty, glances at the photo again, then drops the phone back into his pocket. He'll delete the photo once Jim is done with it. He plunges his fists in his pockets and starts to pace around the room, slowly. He doesn't like it when a plan does not come together. And this one is frayed at the edges.

Jim watches him for a moment, frowns. Then he picks up the pile of papers, glances through them and finally pulls out one sheet. He reads it, then holds it out to Billings.

Billings takes it – glances at it. It appears to be some sort of medical report. He reads the entire page, then hands it back to Jim, who drops it back on top of the pile.

He looks at Jim, then glances around the room. "Oh, bloody Hell, I don't know." He sits back down and crosses his legs again. "I'm not a sodding doctor, Jim. I can't tell a heart attack from a hemorrhoid attack. But the man looked – " he waves his hand at the report Jim has just given him. "It looks like that," he muses. "Coulda' been his heart."

He glances at Jim, frowns. "What are you thinking?"

Jim Moriarty turns back to the monitor and rereads the email he has just received. "I don't know. The damned drug isn't supposed to cause –" he breaks off, thinking furiously. He is thinking out loud now. "But two of them? Both of them heart failure victims … what are the freaking odds? This is getting more interesting. And I so crave 'interesting'."

Then he smiles and takes a blank sheet of paper out of the printer next to him. He gets out his pen and scrawls a few words on it, then reaches to hand it to Mick.

Billings takes the sheet, reads what Jim has written, then raises an eyebrow. "How will this help?"

"Oh, Michael, Michael – can I call you Mick? Great. It won't help – that's the entire POINT of all this. Nothing is going to HELP." His weird sing song rises and he grins at Mick Billings.

"Now be a good boy and run along. Find one of those Office places – you know, where they'll send a fax for you. And be back here in one hour. We're going out to look at an investment property and I'll need you to drive."

Billings stares at him, then turns to look pointedly at the fax machine on the stand behind Jim. "What's wrong with that?"

Jim just shakes his head. "The trouble with you Mick, is that you have no imagination."

He scribbles something on a sticky note, then hands it to Billings.

"Here's the number it has to go to."

And as Billings crosses the room, Jim calls after him. "And make certain you've got enough cash in local currency on you. That little sheet of paper is going to cost more than you think."

As Billings leaves, Jim swivels around to stare at the map he has pinned up on the wall. The map of London. He smiles again. "Yes. That little sheet of paper is going to cost someone a very great deal."

His mobile rings. Jim answers, listens, then smiles.

"Yes. Can we speak English? Wonderful. Yes, I am the one who contacted your office. It's about that building you have for lease." He turns back to the computer. _And God will he be glad when he has his staff back together and he doesn't have to take on these ridiculous mundane tasks himself. Jesus._

OooOooO

"Sherlock" John's quiet voice jars him awake and he sits up abruptly, blinking. John's hand drops from where it has been tangled in the dark curls. He stares at the detective.

"You okay?" he asks. He jerks the blanket off his legs that Sherlock covered him with and swings around slowly to sit up on the edge of the bed.

The detective looks at the doctor, smiles grimly. "Some bodyguard I turned out to be."

He sits back, rubs his hands over his face, then looks at John again. He frowns. The doctor's eyes are dark, too dark. But perhaps it's the subdued light in the hospital room.

At John's pointed look, Sherlock nods. "I'm fine."

He stands up, stretches, then begins to pace around the room. He does not tell John that he just watched him – again - fall over a cliff edge – and plunge to his death in an icy river _. God, if this is going to become a recurring dream maybe he's the one who should be speaking with Maggie Oakton and not John._

He stops to stare out the window, then sighs and turns. John still sits on the edge of the bed and watches him, his eyes narrowed.

"I should be asking you that," Sherlock says quietly. He comes back to sit down in front of John, reaches for his Army doctor's hands and holds them in his grip.

"So – John Hamish Watson Holmes – are you okay?"

John studies Sherlock's face for a few seconds, then flashes him that quick grin the detective so loves.

"Couldn't be better," he says. He pulls his right hand from the detective's grip, and reaches up to find the dog tag where it hangs around Sherlock's neck. He fingers it slightly, then straightens it against his shirt collar. Sherlock notes he uses his right hand. John's left hand is still in his grasp and he can feel the slight tremor.

"And you," John says with quiet amusement. "Sherlock Holmes, er Watson, how are you feeling?"

Sherlock grins at him. "Right as rain."

He leans over and brushes his lips over John's forehead. "Let's get this show on the road," he murmurs against the dark blonde hair.

John smiles. And nods. He looks around for his boots.

OooOooO

"All right, listen up people." DI Greg Lestrade sits back down in his chair and picks up a pen to drum on the notepad.

"Normally, this wouldn't come under the heading of what we – er_-"

"We were all wondering how you got this one by the Commissioner," Sally Donovan says dryly.

Lestrade flashes her a quick look. He nods. "Well, it wasn't that hard a sell, to be fair."

He pulls a file folder toward him, opens it, then picks up the single sheet of paper that lies there. It is actually a photograph. He hands the sheet to Sally, who looks at it, then raises an eyebrow.

She hands it to the next officer, who happens to be Sgt. Joe Rodriguez.

She looks at Lestrade. "Someone out there is sick."

Lestrade looks grim. He does not tell them about the attack on John Watson in St. Anne's. But they will have to know before the night is over.

Rodriguez glances at the sheet, then passes it to the next man over. He feels slightly sick.

The photograph is a close-up of John Watson's Victoria Cross, centered in the middle of the page.

The caption reads: SINCE WHEN DOES OUR MILITARY AWARD OUR HIGHEST HONOR TO FILTH LIKE THIS – THE GAY LIVE-IN COMPANION TO AN EQUALLY PERVERTED MADMAN?

At the bottom of the page, there is one additional sentence: Copy: London Times. It is dated that day.

Sally's stomach lurches. She shuts her eyes.

OooOooO

Sherlock comes out of the loo just as Maggie Oakton comes back in the door of John's hospital room.

He has been taking a last glance around to make certain that neither man has forgotten anything. Neither he nor John have accumulated that much since their stay – but Mrs. Hudson and Anthea have both been diligent in providing them with clean clothing and all the accessories two men batching it in one small room require. He doesn't want to forget anything.

He acknowledges Maggie with a nod. Then he glances at John – and frankly stops in his tracks.

John Watson stands next to the bed he has occupied for three long weeks in St. Anne's. He is dressed in the slim dark jeans, dark blue shirt and soft blue jumper that he had on earlier. He also has put on the dark military boots that Mrs. Hudson had brought a few days before ( _prior to the_ _destruction at 221B_ , thanks Sherlock, _thank God - or their personal shopping list would have been much more extensive.)_

John has just shrugged into the new wool military-style coat that Anthea brought him (Sherlock assumes it was Anthea; if he finds out it was Mycroft, well -). The coat is cut with a slim profile – and exactly fits the doctor in size and style, as if it were designed for him and him alone. For all Sherlock knows, this may be the case.

John unconsciously stands at parade rest, both hands clasped behind his back. Earlier, Sherlock had switched on the overhead light and it glances off John's blonde head, creating aureoles of light that encircle the doctor's hair, and are reflected back at the viewer.

He is slim, appears to be 10 years younger, and is dressed to kill.

Sherlock does a double-take. His groin tightens and he nearly groans aloud.

" _Sweet Jesus,"_ he thinks. _We are in for one hell of a long car ride tonight. And no time or opportunity for_ _anything else."_

He shuts his eyes briefly, then opens them to find himself staring straight into John's eyes from across the few feet that separate them.

The doctor looks amused.

The doctor looks kissable.

The doctor looks as if he wishes a certain consulting detective would cross those few feet, rip the unfamiliar clothes right off his body and have his way with him right there on the floor in St. Anne's.

Audience be damned.

Sherlock takes a step forward.

"Well, looks like we have everything," Maggie says brightly. She flips through John's discharge papers in her hand, notes that they have been signed (Sherlock forged John's careful signature when he noted that the doctor's hands shook so much, he could barely hold the pen.) She nods again.

"I'll just take these to the nurse's station. I need to pick up a second copy of Doctor – er, John's med schedule, as well." She pauses and glances at John, who stares back at her impassively. He seems like a different man.

Sherlock stands there and thinks exactly the same thing.

" _Of course he does,"_ thinks Sherlock. " _This is the first time that John has been able to get out of that damned bed and actually stand, the first time he has been able to wear anything other than jim jams or flimsy hospital gowns in ages_."

He realizes with a shock this is the first time he has seen John look more or less like himself in nearly four weeks. Four weeks since his abduction from the clinic – since the shooting. One week spent in captivity with Moriarty's people – nearly three weeks spent here in St. Anne's, and of those, John has been unconscious nearly 7 days – five days when he was brought in and another entire 24 hours after Mycroft's rogue agent injected John.

Sherlock winces at the thought. Then he narrows his eyes and tries to look beyond the obvious – beyond John's slim profile, blond hair and clothes that fit him like a glove. It is then he notices how John grips his hands behind him, not just at parade rest, but he obviously clenches both hands behind his back.

He stares back at the detective – and raises one eyebrow.

And Sherlock sees his eyes, his older, unfathomably dark eyes. Their appearance – almost – shatters the illusion of youth.

Faint tremors begin to shake John's form. He shakes his head and drops it, breaking eye contact with Sherlock. He grips his hands behind his back. Sherlock can see the strain evident in John's shoulders, even through the wool of the coat.

Sherlock takes two steps forward – and catches the doctor as he sways slightly where he stands.

"John," he murmurs. John shakes his head, frowns, squints his eyes. He lowers his head to stare at the floor, then looks up at the detective, who grips his arms.

"I'm okay, Sherlock," he whispers. "I'm fine. Let's just wait for Maggie, okay?"

Sherlock nods and helps John to sit on the side of the bed. The detective notes the cold sweat that dots John Watson's forehead. Once he knows the doctor can sit upright on his own, he crosses to the loo and comes back with a damp flannel. He wipes John's forehead and the doctor allows this. Then he takes the cloth from Sherlock's hand and finishes the job – wipes his face and then hands it back to Sherlock.

He nods once, curtly. "I'm okay." His voice brooks no argument from the detective. Sherlock's eyes narrow at the curt tone.

Sherlock stands back and stares at him for a moment, then turns as Maggie comes back into the room.

She is perusing several pages she holds in her hands.

Doctor William Merit comes in behind her. Sherlock raises one eyebrow. "Isn't this rather late for a house call, Doctor Merit?" he says dryly.

Merit sighs and nods. "I wanted to see you, Mr. Holmes, if you have a moment." He holds a file folder in his hand.

Sherlock looks at Merit, then makes it a point to look directly at John. "Doctor Merit, if what you have to discuss with me concerns Doctor Watson, than we both need to hear what you have to say."

John's gaze meets Sherlock's – and he nods appreciatively.

Merit sighs. He pulls up a chair. "All right," he says quietly. He opens the file.

John stares at Merit. But Sherlock sees the tremors that run through the slim body. He frowns.

OooOooO

Lori looks up. _At last._ Sally Donovan comes out of the DI's office, followed quickly by Joe and a half dozen other officers. And last, by the DI himself. They look worried – and busy.

Joe comes over to her, exchanges a few words and then nods at Sally, who nods back. He kisses Lori quickly, smiles at her, then leaves with the others. Lestrade follows them out thoughtfully.

Sally looks at Lori and raises a quizzical eyebrow. "Ready? I'm to be your chauffeur tonight."

Lori puts on her coat and picks up her purse. She turns to Donovan. "Sgt. Donovan – Sally, I'm confused. What's going on?"

Sally glances at the others as they file out of the office. "I'm afraid I can't give you all the details right now. But Joe has asked me to see you home. One of them will swing by to pick me up shortly." She smiles at the small nurse. "There are a few things I can tell you. But first we need to get going. Where are you parked?"

"Downstairs," says Lori. Sally nods and both women leave.

OooOooO

At the back entrance to St. Anne's, the entrance reserved for ambulances, a slight blonde man in a wheelchair is being helped into the back of the ambulance. He is followed immediately by another man, tall dark, with curling black hair. An attendant jumps in the back with them and another one gets in the drivers seat. The ambulance pulls away from St. Anne's. Once out on the road, its lights begin to flash.

As it pulls away, it is immediately followed by a dark car, plain, ordinary, no special markings Just a car. It too pulls out of the turn around and follows the ambulance.

Ten minutes later, two vans pull up to the side entrance reserved for deliveries. People get in and out of the vans. It's rather confusing. Then first one van pulls away, followed by another shortly. Both vans are marked with the logo of a uniform laundry and delivery service. The vans do not remain in the city, however but take to the highway quickly. Once out of the main traffic areas of London, one of them speeds up and puts distance between itself and the second van.

OooOooO

John reads the two reports from Frank's office in Lucerne. Then he rereads them, paying particular attention to the medical terminology. He frowns. Once done, he hands the papers to Sherlock, who shakes his head. He already knows what they say and considers them to be lies. John raises an eyebrow, then hands the sheets to William Merit. Merit replaces them in the folder, then hands the folder to Maggie. She takes it, drops it an open soft-sided briefcase which sits on the floor next to her. They nestle up against other file folders – John's medical records.

"Okay," says Doctor John Watson. He looks at Sherlock, who stares back. "And we believe these to be - what, exactly? Faked reports?"

Dr. Merit begins to answer but Sherlock cuts him off. He comes to stand directly in front of John, who sits on the side of his bed. "John. These reports are sheer fabrications. And Mycroft is sending someone to verify that. The initial reports indicated that the drug does not have any of the – effects – outlined in those –" he waves his hand at the folder in Maggie's briefcase. "Mycroft's people are verifying but it takes time. The first test subject is – dead and buried. We believe he had an underlying heart condition which accounted for his death. It takes – time – to get at the facts here. But all initial reports indicate –"

"If you don't mind, Mr. Holmes, I'll take it from here." William Merit chooses his words carefully. "Doctor Watson, we have done extensive tests on you while you have been here in St. Anne's. As you know, you were unconscious during most of them. However," here he glances up at Sherlock who stands next to John, his hands on his slim hips, "Mr. Holmes insisted that we perform all those tests again, paying particular attention to the cardio."

He looks straight into John Watson's eyes. "And I can tell you this much, John, every single one of those tests – every single one – came back negative. Your heart is sound. We can find no abnormalities whatsoever. Other than the obvious, er, problem you are currently experiencing—"

John nods thoughtfully "My addiction, you mean. Thank you, Bill."

At the word, Maggie glances at John approvingly. _Good, he is not beating around the bush here._ She nods at John.

John thinks for a moment, then glances up at Sherlock. He, really, has no choice at the moment. "Looks like it's time we got the hell out of here," he says dryly.

Sherlock grins and nods.

OooOooO

At the door of the small VW, Sally hesitates. She glances at Lori. "I know you must be pretty tired, Lori. Want me to drive?"

Lori shakes her head. "I'm fine. I have to get used to these late nights, I guess."

The women get in the car and drive away from the car park.

One block away, a small nondescript car pulls out of yet another convenience store lot. It picks them up in another three blocks and begins to trail behind them, unnoticed.

Once out on the road, Lori glances at Sally briefly. "Why are you even coming with me, not that I mind," she says with a small laugh.

Sally laughs easily. "Joe can be very persuasive. He made me promise to see you home. And," she glances at her watch, "someone will pick me up at your place shortly. We want Joe to have his peace of mind and I have the time. Besides," Sally reaches for water bottle in her purse, "the road they are taking goes right by your exit so it's no bother at all."

Lori nods. "Okay. But I could have just driven with them."

Sally looks at her amused. "But you'd be without your car."

Lori thinks this over. "Okay. But can you at least give me a hint about what's going on here?" She glances at the Sgt. "Is it normal to have so many of the Yard's 'finest' out on the road this time of night? Can you tell me what Joe's doing – what you all are doing?"

Sally considers thoughtfully. She turns to Lori. "I can tell you this much, it has to do with your friends, Doctor Watson and Sherlock Holmes." She looks back at the dark scenery out side the window. "I don't know how much will be public knowledge, come morning, but well, there are some pretty sick individuals out there. And we expect an attack, of some sort, against either Watson or Holmes or both of them."

Lori's eyes widen. "An attack? On John and Sherl – Mr. Holmes? But they're in St. Anne's. I just saw them there–"

Sally shakes her head. "Lori. Doctor Watson and Sherlock Holmes will leave St. Anne's in nearly," she glances at her watch again, "nearly ten minutes. They are taking the same route we are. But to an entirely different destination, however."

She looks at the profile of the nurse while she is driving. "We felt – the DI felt – that it would be safer for both of them if they left St. Anne's as soon as Doctor Watson was able and went – elsewhere - well, I can't tell you exactly where they are going. That's private. Let's just say, they have an escort and leave it at that, okay?"

Lori nods. She frowns as she drives, and thinks of the quiet Doctor she has come to know and respect. "We were in the hallway together," she thinks. "In the hallway together. He'll need a nurse where he is going. And they didn't ask me."

This thought makes her feel saddened. And not a bit angry.

"They didn't ask me," she says out loud. Sally stares at her, startled by the urgent tone in the small woman's' voice.

"Lori, they couldn't ask you to be Doctor Watson's nurse, if that is what you mean."

"Why the fucking hell not!" explodes Lori Hansen.

Sally raises an eyebrow. She had momentarily forgotten Lori Hansen's rather remarkable – er – vocabulary. She flashes back to the scene on the road that freezing day – the day John Watson died in Sherlock Holmes' arms. The day they all stood around his body, by the side of the road, in the freaking cold, and watched as Hansen and Holmes pounded breath, pounded life, back into the doctor.

Lori's sudden outburst tickles her. This is going to be a fun drive.

"Lori, let me tell you something that you'll probably know sooner or later. What the hell, you're engaged to one of the DI's own now, and you'll know soon enough. There have been – threats – indirect but threats nevertheless against the Holmes' family and against Doctor Watson. Rather horrid things were done to their flat. There was a lot of – destruction. And more horrible things are still to come. We know that for a fact. And I do know that they thought of asking you to be the doctor's nurse but, well, they felt it would be too dangerous."

Sally tells Lori what she wants to hear. She has no idea whether John or Sherlock did, in fact, think of asking the young woman to be the doctor's nurse. She just assumes this to be the case, knowing what she does about Doctor Watson and Hansen's shared history. But she also knows he most definitely would not want to put the nurse in danger again. She has learned a lot about John Watson in the past few months. She enjoys their occasional lunches together. She waits for the nurse to say something. Lori is silent.

Sally glances at Lori's face, which looks murderous in the darkened car interior. She looks at the scenery that passes out the window for a moment, considering.

"I do know they wanted you, but the danger is very real. And they had no intention of putting you in the midst of that again. Not after what you went through, back there in the Wellington. And Joe would not have liked it."

Lori nods. She understands. She really does. But it hurts nonetheless. She sighs and loosens her tight grip on the steering wheel. Looking back, she now remembers that hesitant silence when she first walked into John Watson's hospital room. "It was then," she thinks. "It was then they looked at each other and both decided not to pull me into this."

The two women drive on in silence as Lori works through these events in her mind.

Neither one of them notices the small car that follows a few car lengths behind.

OooOooO

Doctor Merit stands, shakes John's hand and then Sherlock's. He nods at Maggie, then asks, "Do you have the hypos for Doctor – for John?"

Maggie nods, glances at John. They discussed this earlier that day while Sherlock was out of the room. " _He was probably smoking,_ she thinks. " _Well, the good doctor will see to that nasty habit in a hurry."_

"John needs something now," says Sherlock quietly. John looks daggers at him, nearly says something.

The detective holds up a hand. "John, I need you awake and aware but you are already experiencing – problems - and have been for the past 22 minutes." He glances at his watch. "Make that 23 minutes."

If looks could kill, Sherlock would be dead at their feet. The doctor's dark blue eyes narrow. He says nothing. But the god awful _heat_ is building slowly in his veins and he feels a small scream starting somewhere in the region of his esophagus. He shuts his eyes. Shudders.

Maggie looks at John, her eyes wide. "Why didn't someone say something?"

She goes over to John, wraps her cool fingers around his wrist and takes his pulse, then looks into his eyes. "Doctor Watson, I can give you a mild sedative. It should hold off any – reaction – until we get to our destination and I can give you something stronger. But you should have said something."

She goes out of the room quickly, followed by Dr. Merit.

Sherlock glances at John, then looks up as one of Mycroft's men comes in the door. He holds a small plastic bag in his hand, which he takes over to Sherlock. Sherlock accepts it, nods. Their razors from the nurse's station. He looks from the man, Enders, to John. "Can you watch him for a few please? Doctor Oakton is bringing in a hypo for him and I need—" Sherlock breaks off as Maggie rushes back into the room, followed by a nurse. They both rush to John.

Enders nods at Sherlock and takes up his station by the door. Sherlock drops the bag into his carryon and leaves John's room quickly before a certain Army doctor gets up from his bed and tackles him to the ground. He is fairly certain that sex will not come into this particular attack.

He goes out to smoke a last cigarette. He has no illusions about John's continuing acceptance of his habit. He sighs as he walks quickly down the corridor. Ten minutes to go.

OooOooO

He follows them at a distance, always keeping at least two car lengths between them. Before he knows it, they are out on the open highway.

" _Good,"_ Stephan nods to himself. " _They are heading back to her_ _place. It's out of the way. This will be – good."_

He has no illusions about his actions that evening. People are going to die. Lori Hansen is going to die. But at least with this particular route, she will take few others with her.

Stephan's hands grip the steering wheel and he thinks of his sister and niece. And of himself.

OooOooO

Sherlock quickly walks back to John's room. The nurse has just left, having helped Maggie give John an injection. Maggie stands by the open door and speaks with Sherlock.

"He should be fine for a while," she says. "At least for the next couple of hours. The injection will make him a little drowsy, perhaps lightheaded, but it should not knock him out. He should be okay. If not," she hands him the slim dark case. Sherlock pockets it thoughtfully, nods.

She goes out to the nurse's station to have a word.

Sherlock comes back into the room – and stares.

John stands at the window, and looks out at the darkness. His hands are clasped behind his back, once more at parade rest. It is the doctor's default position this evening, Sherlock realizes. John is basically a man of action. And he has been forced to be inactive for too long a time. He is eager to get out of there, to have a hand in his recovery, to just freaking _move._

Sherlock totally understands this feeling. Then he looks at Agent Enders – and his eyes narrow. His breathing quickens. Immediately, he goes on full _John Watson alert._

Sherlock has come into the room quickly and quietly and for just a moment, Enders has not reacted to his presence. Just one telling moment. Sherlock stares at the man. He might just be guilty of homicide this evening.

Mycroft's man stands in the back of the room, where he and John have obviously been talking together before Sherlock came in, and he stares at John Watson as the doctor stands in front of the window, silhouetted by the darkness outside and the bright interior lighting.

Enders is, frankly, staring at John.

Enders is staring at John.

Enders is staring at _his_ John.

And it is not the stare of a man looking at another person he is sworn to protect.

It is the stare of a man – looking at another man – in a highly inappropriate manner. One guaranteed to get him knocked flat on his arse by one highly pissed off consulting detective.

Sherlock takes a step forward, his eyes narrow even more. Honest to Christ, is he going to spend most of his time here on out beating the holy shite out of every man in a mile radius who even comes close to John? Because he already has to have words with his brother over this – issue. This could get tiring. Wholly satisfying, but tiring nonetheless.

Sherlock walks fully into the room and Enders startles out of his reverie. The agent glances at Sherlock.

And realizes he has been busted.

His cheeks warm.

Sherlock has no time for this. He cannot get into a fist fight here in St. Anne's, so he tables it for later. Enders is, after all, one of the men who will accompany them to the manor. He wonders if it is too late to request a replacement from Mycroft. No. It's way too late for a change in plans. So, he has to nip this in the bud.

He takes the second best approach. Sherlock Holmes walks up to John Watson, into his personal space, and stands directly behind the doctor. John glances around, amused, but unmoving. Sherlock puts a hand on John's shoulder, squeezes. John shuts his eyes.

"Er, excuse me," Enders rushes past the two, glancing at his watch as he does so.

"Mr. Holmes, it's time." He turns at the door and watches the two men. They have not moved a muscle. Sherlock still stands directly behind John, certain parts of his – er – anatomy brushing directly up against certain parts of the doctor's – er anatomy. The message is clear.

"Yes, why don't you go see about the arrangements?" Sherlock's voice brooks no argument. His normal baritone has sunk even lower. His eyes have gone alien, feral and they gleam in the light, there in John's room in St. Anne's.

Enders nods and leaves hurriedly _. Honest to God, the man just growled at me,_ he thinks.

Enders goes out to have a word with Lynn at the front door. He realizes, glancing back at Sherlock's face, that he has never missed a punch in the nose by so little.

Maggie Oakton comes back into the room, and looks at the two men who stand, unmoving, in front of the window. She looks at them, then smiles to herself. Really, their body language couldn't be more explicit, she thinks.

She wonders how they will fare on the long ride to the Holmes manor. She herself will follow with one of the agents. She has been told only this: there will be some sort of caravan along the main stretch of highway. And eventually, everyone will end up where they need to be.

Delighted with the smack of intrigue the evening promises, she gathers up her purse and coat, nods at the two men, one of whom nods back to her, then turns to leave. She has already discussed John's situation with Sherlock. The car she is in will follow close behind. The detective has the case with the hypos that contain Doctor Watson's medicine – to be used only if needed. And they all have their cells. Except Doctor Watson, she notes, startled. No one has bothered to give her a number for Doctor Watson's cell. She presumes it will not be needed.

She turns at the door, remembers something. She pulls the two sheets of paper from her purse that nurse McBride gave her earlier.

"This fax came for you earlier. They were holding it at the nurse's station for you." She places the two sheets on the end of John's bed, nods again and leaves with Agent Lynn. Lynn nods once at Enders. "See you in a minute," and he leaves with Maggie.

Enders comes back into the room, stares at Sherlock and jerks his head toward the door.

"Come on, John," Sherlock's hands tighten momentarily on his Army doctor's shoulder. John turns quickly into his embrace. And tilts his head up for a quick kiss. John totally ignores the agent at the door. He is well aware of all the posturing that has gone on in the last minute and a half.

And is highly amused by it.

And not a little aroused by Sherlock's obvious jealousy. God, it has just been so long.

He kisses Sherlock quickly on the lips. The detective tightens his grip on John Watson – and kisses him back. Slowly. They stand for a moment wrapped up in each other. Just breathing. Sherlock can feel faint tremors race through the doctor's quiet form. He frowns in the darkness.

"John?"

"I'm fine, Sherlock. Don't fuss. Maggie gave me something. I'm – fine for now." John does not mention the cloying heat in his veins. He absolutely does not bring up the overwhelming urge to claw at his own skin. He most definitely does not mention the dark _something_ that he can see wavering in the corner of the room. He is well aware that nothing is there. He will give Maggie's injection a chance before he mentions any of this to the detective.

He tries not to think about it. He shuts his eyes – and gets lost in Sherlock.

Sherlock nods, he has to take John at his word. They have no time for anything else.

Sherlock sees out of his peripheral vision that Enders has thoughtfully turned his back on the two, there by the door.

"Good," thinks Sherlock. "I might not have to kill him right now. I can kill him later, when we have more time."

He can foresee certain – problems – in their immediate future if he lets this situation develop any further. Hopefully, Enders has got the message. If not, he can pound it into him once he is out of this damn hospital room.

He murmurs something into John's bright hair and brushes his forehead with his lips. John just nods, sighs, and stands back from the detective, quiet tremors race through his body.

They go to get their bags, but Enders is ahead of them. He hoists John's duffel bag and stares unperturbed at the detective, who ignores him and picks up his own bag and his long coat.

Sherlock shrugs into the short jacket he wore on the day of the Wellington rescue and John stares at him. It is the first time he has seen Sherlock in this short, form-fitting jacket. He highly approves.

Aware of his doctor's steady gaze, Sherlock places a hand on John's lower back and guides him to the door. On the way, he snags the two sheets of paper off the bed and shoves them in his jacket pocket. He will read it in the car. They both walk out, directly by Enders, who follows behind, thoughtfully. Sherlock has a most decidedly territorial look on his face as they pass the agent.

The men glance at the nurse's station. Must be shift change because only one nurse stands there. McBride. She smiles at both men and nods at John particularly. "Take care, Doctor Watson," she says quietly. "Be well."

John nods back, and thanks her, not certain if he knows her or not. He and Sherlock, flanked by Agent Enders, walk down a back corridor to take the elevator to the delivery entrance.

Enders glances at his watch. The ambulance left 20 minutes earlier with the decoys. Good. They are right on schedule.

OooOooO

As the ambulance with the flashing lights, but no siren, travels quickly along the open road, followed closely by the dark car which contains two of Lestrade's officers, another car follows along, keeping a steady rate of speed and about a quarter mile distance between them.

A fourth car, this one a van, follows along behind them. There is now a nice little caravan traveling along the open road.

_And you have to have a bloody score card to know the players_ , thinks Officer Williams, one of Lestrade's officers. He is in the van. "Just keep driving," he tells Benson. Benson nods.

Williams picks up his mobile, thumbs a button.

"Yup," says Joe Rodriguez. He is in the car directly behind the ambulance.

"Joe, you've picked up a tail. Quarter mile back. Looks to be a black Honda or similar. Can't know for sure yet. We're on it," says Williams.

"Okay, roger that." Joe hangs up and stares out the window at the scenery. So far, so good. His phone rings. He picks it up.

"False alarm," comes the voice.

Joe frowns. "Repeat that?"

"False alarm. The tail has passed you already."

Joe nods. Okay then.

He wonders how Lori and Donovan are getting on.

OooOooO

Lori drives in the darkness, her mind racing. She wonders what this plan is that Sally has mentioned, wonders at the details. At the same time, she is the daughter of a military man and the cousin of a Marine – and she is well aware that there are obviously certain things she does not need to know. For now.

Again, she feels a pang at the thought that Doctor Watson will need a nurse to help care for him – and it will not be her. She feels rather protective of the good doctor. And as terrifying as their ordeal was, there in the lower levels of the Wellington, she finds she misses parts of it. Not the fear, the overwhelming feeling of sick fear that dogged her footsteps, sent ice water up and down her spine. No, never that. But the feeling there at the end, when she thought they were all safe and secure – that feeling when she and Doctor Watson braved the darkness together. She will remember those moments forever. She hugs them to her now, there in the darkness of the car's interior.

Neither of the women speak.

"What's that?" Donovan asks. She looks at the flashing orange light on the dashboard.

Lori groans. "Not now. Not freaking now," she says. She begins to slow down and looks for a place to pull over. Donovan pulls out her mobile. She knows that the caravan is somewhere behind them on the open road. And she also knows that Joe Rodriguez is in the car behind the ambulance. He will definitely want to know his fiancée and fellow officer are stranded on the open road.

Presumably, this will not change the plans much. But they can't just sit there until morning.

She makes the call.

OooOooO

Sherlock glances at the van and holds the side door open for John. John gets in and ignores everyone but Sherlock for the moment. He begins to feel out of breath. He takes his seat in the back, fumbles for a seatbelt, then just lets it be. He shuts his eyes and concentrates on his breathing, which has become somewhat labored. He internally groans. _Not now_ , he thinks. _Please, God, not now_. He feels slightly lightheaded from the tranquilizer Maggie gave him, but he can discern no other changes in the horrid response he is experiencing.

Enders tosses both bags and Sherlock's coat in the back of the van, then gets into the front with Lynn, who will drive. He ignores the detective and most pointedly does _not_ glance at the doctor as he gets into the van. It is going to be a long, strained trip if he and Holmes cannot put this past them.

Ender is well aware the – situation – is his fault entirely and he feels slightly abashed about it. One stare. One freaking little look. That's all it took. He shakes his head at his unprofessionalism and fastens his seat belt.

"Everyone in?" asks Lynn. They all answer in the affirmative. "Good," he pulls away from St. Anne's.

They are followed immediately by yet another nondescript car that holds another of Mycroft's agents and Maggie Oakton.

John does not look back at the hospital. He does not need any more visual reminders of places where he has nearly died. He has enough of those to last a lifetime.

He looks out the window at the dark scenery. In the dark, he holds out his right hand and Sherlock unerringly finds it immediately. The two men hold hands, there in the darkness. John frowns at the growing heat in his veins.

The detective says nothing.

They are on the open road sooner than John thought possible but then, he cannot remember traveling this route at this time of night before. He definitely does not miss the London traffic.

Both men look out at the darkness, think their private thoughts. But their hands remain clasped between them.

"Thank God, it's a van and not the SUV," thinks Sherlock. He tugs slightly on John's hand – and the doctor willingly moves closer to Sherlock along the shared seat.

The detective goes over the route in his mind.

OooOooO

Lori pulls off the main road and shuts the engine. She lowers her head to the steering wheel in aggravation, then raises up and looks at Sally, who looks at her in amusement.

"God, I'm just so sorry. The stupid thing has been just fine. No problems."

Sally laughs. "Don't worry about it. Actually, Joe is about a half mile behind us. I've called him. They'll pull over and get us." She has no idea what Lestrade will say about this slight change in plans but they are already short-manned at the station. This seems the best for all concerned. They can drop Hansen off at her place, a short detour really, and she can continue on with Joe.

Lori nods, thankfully. She decides to get out and stretch her legs. Sally smiles and stays put. It is too bloody cold to get back out of the car right now and the little heater has been working perfectly. She is loath to let any more heat out than necessary. She holds her mobile in her hand and waits for Joe to call her back.

OooOooO

He is about a half mile behind them and he glances at the seat next to him – and at the small black control that sits there.

His palms are wet and he wipes them on his slacks, puts them back on the steering wheel.

Bloody hell, how did his life become so complicated?

OooOooO

Joe Rodriguez gestures in the darkness. "There they are."

Officer Cates pulls over immediately. He glances at the clock on the dash. They have to make this quick or there will be hell to pay with the DI. They have, after all, miles to go yet. On the other hand, this little stop may flush one of the bastards out sooner than expected.

Joe gets out of the car and sees that Lori is already walking quickly back toward him He can just see her VW bug parked up ahead, where she has pulled off the road. Presumably, Donovan remains in the car. He hurries toward his fiancée. They have to get back on the road quickly.

OooOooO

Sherlock pulls John to him, cradles his head against his chest. Tiny tremors shake the doctors' form under the coat he wears. Sherlock frowns. His fingers clench on John's shoulder.

"Just rest," he whispers. "It will take us a while, John. Rest now."

John sighs. He lays his head back against Sherlock's chest, and Sherlock slips his left arm around John. John's right hand lies on the seat between them, it shakes slightly.

Sherlock frowns at the shaking. He stares out of the window at the dark scenery, waits for the all clear chime to sound from his mobile. He goes over the route to the manor and sighs. Quite a while to go. His mind deals with the details of what is to come. He goes over Anthea's directions again, frowns at variables.

He practically misses the slight tremor in John's form.

He almost doesn't hear the catch of John's breath as it comes, there in the darkened interior of the van.

He nearly escapes the way the doctor's hand begins to close into a fist and shake convulsively where it lies between them.

Practically. Almost. Nearly.

"John?"

John's body shakes now uncontrollably and then convulses against Sherlock's steady embrace.

"John!"

Agent Enders looks back over his shoulder, frowns. Swivels his head toward Lynn, who is driving.

"Pull over!" he commands.

"No!" Sherlock nearly shouts. "No, keep driving!"

He tightens his left arm and hand around John's form to hold onto the doctor's body, the convulsions coming sudden and swift now. With his right, he quickly fumbles in the back pocket of the car seat in front of him, brings out the small black case. He hands it across to Enders, who takes it over his shoulder. The agent hurriedly slips the catch and takes out one of the five slim hypos resting there.

"John! Hold on," commands Sherlock.

"Sherlock…fuck…Sherlock!" John's voice is rasping, dry. His body shakes in earnest now.

John Watson groans and doubles over in the dark cab of the car. He yanks his right hand out from Sherlock's grasp and wraps both arms around his stomach, nearly doubles in two.

"God! Bloody hell -" he gasps.

Sherlock hears him grit his teeth and he fears the doctor will bite his own tongue in two.

"Mr. Holmes!" Enders twists around in the seat and holds out one of the hypos; he has taken the cap off the end. At the same time he reaches up and clicks on the interior light.

Agent Lynn continues to drive steadily; he glances in the rearview mirror to briefly meet Sherlock's grim gaze.

Sherlock grabs the hypo from Ender's hand, and yanks John's arm toward him, but his ability to inject John is impeded by the heavy wool of the coat the doctor wears.

"Hell," he whispers.

"Fuck this! Sherlock…god…" John begins to slip out of Sherlock's grasp to huddle on the floor. He looks up frantically - and his left hand suddenly reaches to grasp the door handle.

"No!" shouts the detective. "Lock the doors!" he commands.

Enders repeats to Lynn. "Lock the damn doors!"

There is the sound of a click and John groans aloud. "You bloody bastards! All of you…just…all of you..can go straight to hell!"

He is nearly on his knees now and Sherlock groans aloud in frustration. Finally, in desperation, he pulls John's head back by his silky hair, impatiently yanks the coat collar aside – and sticks the hypo directly in the muscle between the doctor's neck and shoulder.

Sherlock is nearly on the floor himself, as he tries to keep the doctor's body as still as possible, particularly his head. His right hand shakes slightly as he steadily injects the drug under the doctor's skin.

John cries out, all but screams, from the pain of the injection, grits his teeth and groans again.

"God!" Sherlock groans, "John, I'm sorry...Jesus…I'm sorry…"

Suddenly John's body tries to straighten in the small space; his spine arches. And then his head snaps back under the detective's grasp.

Sherlock pulls the hypo out of John's neck and tosses it on the floor at his feet.

Then he reaches to pull John's body off the floor and into his embrace, supports him by his shoulders, grabbing onto the heavy wool.

One desperate heave, and he has John's body back up on the seat now and pulled tight in his grasp.

"Hold on, John, give it time, just hold on." He attempts to pull John toward him but John's spine straightens now, his entire form more or less rigid. His head is still thrown back and Sherlock can – just – make out the tendons straining under the skin. He holds his breath. Five seconds, ten, fifteen.

Then it's over, and John relaxes in his grip, groans softly.

Sherlock pulls John nearly horizontal now to lay the doctors' head in his lap. He wonders how much damage has been done to John's spine and muscles.

"John…" he brushes his hands through the dark spikes and can feel the sweat that has pooled along the hairline and has started to pour down the side of John's face, soaking his shirt collar under the coat.

"Sher- just go to hell….just …" John's voice trails off and he gasps, then starts coughing. Enders uncaps and passes over one of the water bottles and Sherlock takes it, but his hand shakes too badly to do anything more with it other than to put it in one of the pockets in front of him, until John can sit up and drink it without choking.

"John…" he says quietly. John's eyes close, his breathe comes in desperate heaves, then his eyes jerk open and he stares just beyond the detective's shaggy head. He looks up, but does not seem to see his lover's face, there in the darkness of the car's interior, in the one faint overhead light. His body shakes as if from cold. He is, in fact, freezing from shock there in the car interior, even with the wool coat.

No one realizes this, of course.

Sherlock bends his head over John's and whispers into the silky hair.

"It's all right now, John. Try to lie still. Everything's all right now," he breathes into his partner's skin.

John Watson does not respond to him. Instead, he stares at the brilliant lights, the nimbus that surrounds Sherlock's face and hair. He shifts his gaze slightly. The glowing circles fill his peripheral vision now and he continues to stare as the impossible colors in their shifting bubbles fill his entire field of sight.

"John?" Sherlock looks down at John. In the soft glow of the overhead interior light, he sees the doctor's pupils, nearly blown now, sees how John stares wildly around him at something the detective cannot see, then slowly, slowly, his eyes close and he sags against the Sherlock's embrace.

Sherlock flicks the wool coat aside, snakes his left hand under the jumper and between the buttons of John's shirt, feels the flutter of his heart against his fingers.

He nearly sobs in relief.

John's heart races a mile a minute. But it beats – and that is all that matters right now to Sherlock Holmes.

"Mr. Holmes?" asks Lynn.

"Just keep driving," Sherlock says. "Just - drive."

Under his hands, John Watson groans softly, fine tremors shake his body.

The all clear chime has not sounded. He shifts his hold on John - and feels rather than hears the crinkle of paper in his pocket.

Sherlock pulls the two crumpled sheets out of his pocket with his right hand, his left has a death grip on the doctor's silent form. He tilts the paper toward him. Reads the words. His breath catches. The first sheet says simply: SHERLOCK HOLMES - ST. ANNE'S.

The second sheet has a few words scrawled in dark pen.

HOW'S OUR DEAR DOCTOR FEELING?

There is no signature, no other words.

Enders glances back at Sherlock. "Mr. Holmes?"

"Just drive," the detective says. "And turn off that light."

He holds on to John Watson in the dark of the van. And his eyes narrow.

OooOooO

Lori throws herself into Joe Rodriguez's arms and grins. He kisses her swiftly then holds her at arm's distance and glances back down the road. He can clearly see the VW now in the glow of the headlights of their vehicle. Cates has left the engine running to keep the heat on and the headlights on.

"Donovan?" he asks

"She's staying in the bug, where it's warm." Lori tucks her hands into her pockets to try to keep warm. God it is just freezing out here. But she's with Joe. So that's something.

Joe nods. "Okay, we have to get both of you inside and get on the road stat. You get in. Cates is driving. Sit in the back. I'll go get Sally."

Lori nods once and they both turn – and glance down the road to where Lori's car sits, Donovan inside.

Before they can take another step, there is a muffled sound – a muted roaring sound - and they both stare in horror as Lori's VW seems to be thrown up in the air, then tumbles over and over and over, before coming to rest on its side far off to the side of the road.

Lori starts to shake. Her legs buckle. Before Joe can catch her, she sinks to her knees there on the frozen ground.

"Sally," she whispers.

And Joe Rodriguez and Lori Hansen both stare as the small car erupts into flame.

OooOooO


	7. Chapter 7

**These characters in their current incarnation belong to the BBC and in their original incarnation, to the estate of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.**

**THE BOYS OF BAKER STREET**

**CH. 7**

**WARNINGS: Minor character death; Murder; Attempted murder; violent death; language; drug use and one passing reference to a mythological creature.**

**If any of these things give you pause, look away.**

**NOTE: This ongoing work is a Trilogy.  This is Book Two.   This work occasionally references events that occurred in Book One:  THERE BUT FOR THE GRACE OF JOHN WATSON. If you have not read that work, you might not "get" some of the references in this story. You might want to stop right here and go read GRACE first, then come back to BOYS.  Otherwise, your reading experience will not have the intensity that I labored so hard to create for you.**

**My sincere thanks go to: emma de los nardos her invaluable help regarding John's (upcoming) Psychological and Psychiatric treatment, as well as to the amazing Jodi2011 for suggestions and "Brit Picking" this chapter!**

**All remaining errors are mine and mine alone.**

**OooOooO**

**If you're going through hell, keep going.**

**\- Winston Churchill**

OooOooO

Joe stares at the burning VW in disbelief, then pulls Lori up and into his arms. She sobs, her chest hitches, and she grabs onto his jacket with shaking hands. He hears Cates come up behind him.

"Jesus Christ, what the hell!" Cates stares at the flames.

"Here, take Lori and get her out of this damn cold." Joe starts to run toward the burning car. He tosses over his shoulder, "Call Lestrade - stat. Tell him – tell him what happened. Tell him we think Donovan is—" He turns and runs.

"Is what?" Cates looks down at Lori, who huddles against his chest, crying. "Donovan? Don't fucking tell me Sally—"

Lori nods miserably. "She was in the bug when it ... when it exploded." Her breath catches and she tries to take a deep breath, can't quite manage it.

Joe turns as he runs in the dark. "And call a bloody ambulance!"

Cates swears. He moves Lori toward the car and gets her settled in the back seat. He rummages around, finds a blanket in the trunk and tosses it to her, even while he pulls out his mobile. Jesus, what a call to have to make. What the bloody hell is going on anyway!

OooOooO

"Sir? Mr. Holmes?" Enders holds up his mobile phone in astonishment.

Sherlock shoves the crumpled fax back into the pocket of his jacket and looks at the man. He has a death grip on John and can feel that the tremors have, finally, stopped. John's breathing is calmer. The doctor has gone still in his grasp. At least the hypo is working.

"There's been an accident, just up ahead of us."

"We have to keep on the road," says Agent Lynn grimly. "Orders are not to stop under any circumstances unless –"

"What accident?" demands Sherlock.

"Hold on." Enders shouts a question into his phone. Turns to look at Sherlock.

"Hansen's car. Exploded. It's burning—"

"Hansen! What the hell is she doing out here?" Sherlock's voice mirrors his disbelief. He looks down at John's face.

"Christ, there it is now," swears Lynn. They all can see the bright orange flames up ahead, to the left side of the road.

"Pull over," Sherlock orders. He glances down again at John's still form. The doctor would strangle him if he ever found out Hansen was – that they didn't stop and at least try to help.

And in the end it's an easy decision. He owes Lori Hansen. Owes her big time.

Lynn shakes his head. His hands are steady on the wheel.

"No sir. No way. We have our orders. Under no circumstances are we to –"

"Agent Lynn. I am bloody well ordering you to pull over and see if we can help. And that's a new order, Agent. Do not make me call your boss."

Sherlock begins to ease John's body down on the seat. He glances around behind him to see if there is a blanket in the back. He finally tugs at his long coat and pulls it toward him. He tucks it around John's sleeping form, then brushes his fingers through the sweaty spikes that line John's forehead.

Lynn looks sideways at Enders, who nods. Lynn pulls over. They can hear the tires crunch on the frozen ground. Lynn unlocks the doors.

"Agent Lynn, I'm leaving Doctor Watson in your care. See if there's a blanket or something in here to cover him with. At the least, keep the heat on. This coat's not going to be enough. Enders, with me."

Lynn is out of the car, his weapon in his hand, even before Sherlock has a chance to open his door. He moves around to John's side of the van, glances in at the sleeping doctor. He takes up a position by the door. The van's heat is on full blast.

Sherlock bends over, tugs the Makarov out of his ankle holster, and is out of the van and moving toward the fire. He pulls on his gloves as he goes. He can see a car up ahead of them, already parked on the side of the road. The fire is burning brightly and any second, he thinks –

The small explosion, as the fire hits the petrol tank, catches them all by surprise. Sherlock stops in his tracks, then begins to run toward the car. He's not certain, in the dark, if it's the car with Lestrade's men or not. He can see dark figures standing around, backlit by the flames. His eyes narrow. His gloved hand tightens on the Makarov.

There is no freaking way this is an accident. He glances around for any other vehicles.

But only sees the one vehicle. And what is apparently Lori Hansen's car as it burns away by the side of the road.

_Hansen? What the bloody hell?_ The detective's face is grim in the firelight as he strides up to the car, glances in as he passes. And is stunned to see Lori Hansen in the back seat, huddled in on herself. She looks up at him, and her eyes widen. He gestures for her to stay put and walks around the front of the car, followed closely by Enders.

Enders has his mobile out and is talking frantically to someone. He assumes it's Anthea – or Mycroft.

But he can spare no thought to it right now.

The detective strides up to Officer Joe Rodriquez, and another officer who screams into his mobile. He has never met the man but assumes this is another of Lestrade's people. Cates, right? That was the name he was given when they went over the plan initially. Cates. His mind supplies the name even as he stares at the fire. He wonders why the men aren't following the decoy ambulance. That was the plan.

Joe looks around at the detective, shakes his head grimly.

"Donovan," he says tersely.

Sherlock frowns at the news, his mind racing. He stares at the flaming car, then scans the bushes and ground around the adjacent area. It's difficult to see with the orange glare.

_Oakton. Oakton is right behind them with another of Mycroft's men._ He yanks his phone out and calls Lynn, who answers immediately.

"Call your man who's driving with Oakton. Tell them under no circumstances to stop."

"Already done, Sir," says Lynn's calm voice. "They should pass us by any minute now."

Sherlock drops his mobile back into his jacket pocket. He walks away from the others.

Enders comes up right behind him. He watches the detective and realizes what he is doing.

"Fan out," Enders says. "We have a better chance –"

They obviously have the same idea. Sherlock decides he might just have to rethink his position on Enders. They go to opposite sides of the flames and begin the grim search.

"Here," Rodriguez comes up to the detective, shoves a small torch into his hands. Sherlock nods his thanks and switches on the torch. LED. Excellent.

Joe takes a second torch and begins his own search along the side of the road.

Sherlock glances at the verge, and in the brilliant beam of Joe's torch, can see where the VW pulled off the side of the road. Then there's just nothing. He assumes that whatever caused it to explode also caused it to tumble. He frowns in the dark and moves to the far side. There's just the smallest chance.

He mentally plays what must have happened in his mind, runs the dark film forward, pauses. And his mental image of the VW bug pauses as well, literally suspended in midair. He examines the picture in his head, pays particular attention to the passenger side door, then allows the "film" to run forward. The car finishes its frantic tumbling, end over end. As his mind goes over variables, he extrapolates possible paths of trajectory and continues to move outward in a semi-circular path around the flaming car.

And sees something snagged on the bushes just ahead and to the side. "Over here," he shouts. He begins down the small incline, his booted feet sliding on the frozen grass.

He stops; the beam of the torch plays out on what lies more or less under the bushes.

The others come running up behind him. He hears someone's breath hitch. He assumes it's Cates, who now stands behind him and to his left side.

Sherlock shakes his head and stares down the incline toward the bushes.

"Jesus God. Sally," groans Cates.

Grimly, Sherlock pockets the torch and moves forward. The others keep their lights trained on him. He bends down.

Behind them, down the road, they can hear the wail of an ambulance siren.

And Lestrade's voice as it screams from the phone in Joe Rodriguez's hand.

OooOooO

Stephan Yanni pulls over to the side of the road, fumbles with the handle, barely gets the car door open before he stumbles out, falls to his knees and empties the contents of his stomach there on the frozen ground.

His eyes stream. He groans and just remains there and stares at his own vomit.

Murder. He's guilty of cold-blooded murder.

He passes a shaking hand over his face and then slowly gets to his feet.

They told him to report in, afterward. He moves slowly, as if he has aged in the past hour. He stumbles back to the car and gets in, reaches for the seatbelt. Then he just sits there, with the heater going full blast.

And starts to shake.

OooOooO

She walks into his office and stands in front of his desk. He sits upright, leans back slightly in the high-back leather chair. His eyes are closed. She knows better than to think he might, actually, be asleep. But she always hopes.

Hasn't happened yet, though.

"Yes, my dear?" Mycroft's voice is quiet. He opens his eyes to look at her.

" _Lovely,"_ he thinks again. " _Another impossibly long day. And she's still utterly lovely. Her eyes are tired though. I must make her lie down. Get some rest."_

"Things have gone pear shaped," she says softly. She fills him in on what Agent Lynn has told her.

Mycroft frowns. He reaches for his mobile to call his brother. Then thinks better of it.

She looks at him.

He shakes his head grimly. "I'll wait for Sherlock to call me. What about Doctor Oakton?"

"Safe, so far," she assures him. "She should be at the estate in two hours or so."

"And my brother and John – Doctor Watson?"

"Lynn says Doctor Watson had another episode and is unconscious at the scene. But he, too, is safe. They both are. For now."

He nods. And shuts his eyes again.

OooOooO

Maggie Oakton glances at her cell. She reads the text she has just received. _Good_ , she thinks. _Galen is on board. Excellent._ He has always been her first choice for Doctor Watson and she's pleased she was able to convince him.

Of course, Mycroft's influence might have helped. She frowns slightly as she sits there in the passenger side of the car. The agent she drives with – Roaman? Yes, Agent Roaman, is not exactly talkative. She is more or less alone with her own thoughts.

If Mycroft _did_ involve himself in this process, the choosing of Doctor Watson's psychiatric care, Maggie thinks, well, that is entirely inappropriate and she will have to tell him so. For John's sake, she hopes it isn't so. Galen Dennison is the best there is and she looks forward to working with him. She knows that certain – aspects – of John's case will appeal to him. She will call Mycroft with the details in the morning. Once everyone is settled. Someone will have to collect Galen and bring him to the Holmes manor.

She pulls up a file on her phone, glances at it. She muses on whether or not John will need a nurse. She sighs. There are so many logistics involved. She wonders if Merit can be persuaded to – no. Definitely not. She wouldn't want him to take any actions that would get him in trouble with the board. She's already broken any number of rules by handing that case of hypos to Sherlock.

Still – she taps her phone thoughtfully. It is unacceptable to her that John will have to leave the place each time he needs to see a doctor. She sighs again. The Holmes family has a great deal of influence. Maggie knows that obtaining a private physician for John Watson won't be any trouble. In fact, she imagines Mycroft is all over that now. She'll have to ask him in the morning. In retrospect, Sherlock said something, in passing, about the "Holmes' family physician." She wonders who he or she is.

She thinks of the quiet doctor again. From what she has read and heard, the former Capt. can be anything but quiet most of the time. She wonders if the change in behavior can all be attributed to his recent maltreatment – or if other events have come into play. Not for the first time, she wonders how much the chemicals in the Doctor's bloodstream can be faulted for any behavioral changes he currently exhibits. She needs to speak with his partner, Sherlock Holmes. At least John Watson has signed all the necessary release forms the day before. She has a free hand now.

She definitely wants to change John's meds but that will be Galen's responsibility. He will have to take charge of that. Later that day or the next, she fervently hopes.

"Problem up ahead," says Agent Roaman. She glances at him in the dark interior. She heard the cell chime but paid no heed to it.

"What is it?" she asks quietly.

Roaman glances sideways at her, places his mobile back on the dash on one of those small black pads meant to grip it. She stares at the bright screen, then looks back at Roaman. He shakes his head.

"Nothing to worry about, Doctor Oakton. We're to keep on going."

His face looks grim in the lights from the dash. She nods once and glances around. Then gasps as they come up to what looks like a burning car, then pass it by. She twists around in her seat to stare.

"Wasn't that – stop the car!" She turns to Roaman. He shakes his head grimly.

"Agent Roaman, that was – that was the van that Mr. Holmes and Doctor Watson were traveling in. And another car. And something was on fire back there. Stop this car now."

"Doctor Oakton, I have my orders. We are to proceed directly to our destination."

He turns his head toward her briefly and she can see the frown. He is obviously worried. Suddenly he seems just a bit more personable to her.

"I'm sorry, Doctor Oakton. Truly. But your safety is my priority."

He puts his attention back on the dark road in front of him.

Maggie bites her lip and frowns. She is now worried – both about Sherlock – Mr. Holmes - and about her patient, John Watson.

OooOooO

Greg Lestrade drives grimly toward his destination. He refuses all other officers coming with him – or driving him. He shakes his head as he heads down the highway. He fucking cannot believe the phone call he received from Sgt. Cates. Not Sally. They were just speaking a little while ago. It's not possible.

Not bloody possible.

In the dark police car, his eyes narrow. If true, someone is going to damn well pay for this. His hands tighten on the steering wheel.

But he cannot believe it until he sees for himself. He calls ahead to Cates, orders the ambulance to just wait for him. If true, the delay won't make any difference anyway.

OooOooO

The decoy ambulance drives through the night. It has long left the main route and now heads toward Bart's. It's lights flash. The siren however, remains quiet.

The driver, Agent Baker, one of Mycroft's men, purses his lips as he drives. He glances at the dashboard clock. He reaches backward with his left hand, taps on the window directly behind him.

A moment. Then there is an answering tap. He nods and grips the steering wheel tightly. So far, so good.

The decoy van with Lestrade's men are still behind them. So far, the plan has been adhered to. But ….he doesn't like the fact that the car with Lestrade's people veered off to pick up the stranded officer. On the other hand, they were scheduled to take another route shortly anyway. Still - he shakes his head at the unexpected change in plans.

The phone chimes and he pushes the button on the steering wheel.

"Baker? You've picked up another tail. He's between us and you now, steady rate of speed. We're pulling up."

"Okay. Roger that." He frowns and glances in his side mirror. Nothing yet.

The chime comes at the same time he hears the roar of an approaching engine.

"Shit! Baker – he's accelerated. We're on it – Baker?"

He notices the car that pulls alongside him at the last moment. Glances over. His eyes widen. There is a cracking sound – and the window to his right splinters. The ambulance sways, jerks, then tilts over, and finally skids on its side for several hundred yards, before it slams into a pylon. The flashing lights continue to revolve and spin in the darkness.

OooOooO

**Business District – Lucerne, Switzerland**

Jim walks through the front door of the glassed-in building as if he owns the place.

_Which he does, as of this morning,_ he thinks.

He ignores the woman who sits at the front desk. She looks up at him, then back down to her computer screen.

_Good, she's learned already that he has no time for cheery, "Good morning's" or similar such nonsense._

In his office, he is pleased to see that Mick Billings already stands at the far wall, stands and stares out at the view.

Billings turns and nods at Jim as he slides into his chair.

"Nice view," Mick says. He comes up to Jim, his hands in his pockets. "Must have paid a pretty penny for that," he indicates the lake clearly visible beyond the glass wall.

Jim grins. "After spending two sodding months cooped up in that damn underground hell of a Museum, well, I think I owe it to myself."

Mick frowns. He hates – and dismisses - any references to his predecessor, even if by default.

Jim ignores his Lieutenant's frown and hands an envelope to Mick. He takes it, fishes out an airline ticket.

"Going somewhere?" he asks Jim with a raised eyebrow.

Jim smiles. "No. But you are."

Mick stares at the destination code, then slowly raises his head to look James Moriarty in the eyes.

"What the fuck?" he says quietly.

Jim smiles grimly. He swivels to his pc screen and waves a languid hand at an email open on the screen.

"Turns out our dear Doctor Watson needs assistance. His current doctor has requested – certain – help from his colleagues here in Switzerland."

Jim raises his eyes to Mick. "And we, Mick, my dear, are going to respond." He turns back to the screen and begins to type.

"Or, rather, you are going to respond. You, Mick Billings, are going to come to the good doctor's aid. Now go and get packed. There's a dear."

Mick stares at his employer, as a small grin plays its way across his tanned features. At last, here is something the little guy can give him. He nods as he slips the airline ticket into a pocket of his military-style jacket.

Excellent. He wants to get the hell out of this country anyway.

Out loud all he says is, "All right. I assume you'll fill me in later."

Jim just nods, hums a tune. "Lots to do, Mick, lots to do. People to burn; governments to topple," here he looks up at Billings as he turns to go. "Consulting detective's to fuck with. Lots to do."

Mick Billings turns and leaves him to it.

OooOooO

Anthea hurries back into his office. He stands in front of the window. He does not turn. He hears the rapidity of her footsteps and knows something has occurred. She stares at his back.

"The decoy ambulance has been hit. The driver – our driver – Agent Baker - is dead at the scene. Gunshot wound to the head."

"And?" he says quietly. She can see his shoulders stiffen slightly through the gorgeous fabric of his suit jacket.

She shakes her head, and he sees her reflection in the window. "Came through the driver's side of the window. The three agents in the back – the decoys – are fine. All three are a little shook up as the ambulance turned over. The decoy van was right behind them. Saw it happen but couldn't prevent it. They're keeping the ambulance cordoned off, awaiting your orders. But they can't keep the locals out for long. No identifying details were –"

He waves a hand and she breaks off and waits. He thinks a moment, then turns toward her. "You said the decoys are fine?"

She nods her head. "What are you thinking?"

He thinks quickly. Works out the variables. Yes, yes that will do nicely. If they are in time, if the local officials can be made to play along. He narrows his eyes, looks past her.

Then smiles. And she knows a new plan is in place.

"My dear, I'm afraid there is one more – fatality – in that ambulance. And one rather badly injured individual. Injuries which will require immediate care. At Bart's"

"What do you need?" She asks.

He tells her.

When she leaves, he turns back to the window for a moment, then moves to his desk to pick up the mobile to call his brother. He stops, with his hands on his phone, thinking.

Another agent dead.

He is royally, supremely pissed off. No one would know this, though, to look at him.

She would. But she has long become fluent in all things "Mycroft Holmes."

Nearly all things, that is. He smiles grimly, continues to go over facts, variables.

He taps his long fingers on the phone screen as he thinks. From the details that they have so far, and they aren't that many yet – the death of Lestrade's officer was apparently the direct result of a botched attempt to kill the nurse who had cared for John – this little Hansen person.

It is obvious to Mycroft that people who have rendered John Watson or Sherlock Holmes aid are being targeted. As they are themselves, of course. Hence the attack on the ambulance. If the decoy van had not been there with Lestrade's people in it, he has no doubt that all three men in the back of the ambulance would also be dead.

He puts his head in his hands and shuts his eyes for a moment.

Sod it. He can't put the entire nursing staff of St. Anne's in protective custody. His people have enough to do right now with their assigned duties, with flushing these rats out of their hole – and with the care and safety of Sherlock's landlady, John's sister – and their own Mummy for gods' sakes.

Not to mention the men who are on duty at the manor.

He thinks of Lori Hansen for a few moments. He remembers that tense half hour in the Wellington, how she had come up and pressed herself to his side. And promptly passed out. How he carried her out of the Museum. He remembers how tiny, how vulnerable she was. He frowns.

There is one interesting fact in all of this, Mycroft thinks, as he taps his fingers on the plastic housing of the phone. The decoy ambulance, dispatched to Bart's, ostensibly moving Dr. Watson from one hospital to the care of another, was attacked.

Lori Hansen's car was tampered with. But that explosion could have happened at any time she was on the road or even parked at her domicile. It – looks – as if it is sheer coincidence she was on the same road at more or less the same time as Sherlock and John.

But the actual van carrying his brother and the good doctor remained untouched, as was the decoy van and the car with Lestrade's people.

Which means, so far, they can safely assume that the route that Sherlock and John are taking is a safe one and they can go along with the original plan to get them to the estate. He taps his fingers, thinking.

She buzzes him in less than five minutes.

"Yes, my dear?"

"All arranged. Working up the news story now. And the DI has agreed to go along. For the time being.

"Excellent."

"Sir? He sounded – DI Lestrade sounded –"

"He has just lost a trusted officer and a good friend. I can very well imagine how he sounded," Mycroft says tiredly.

"Yes sir."

Yes, he knows how Lestrade feels right at this moment. The same way he feels right now. For the same reason.

She turns back to her computer, then begins to type up the story for the papers. There isn't a lot of time left to get it included in all of the morning editions.

Anthea frowns as she types. This had better work. When she is done, she emails the story to her list of news agencies, then turns from her computer.

She pulls the file toward her with the names of all the agents who have been through "the process," as she and Mycroft call it. She flips through it quickly.

All clear. Which means they have to dig deeper. And as quickly as possible. She taps one beautifully manicured fingertip against her lip thoughtfully.

OooOooO

Lori sits up in the back seat of the car and stares at the ambulance which has just arrived on the scene. She watches as silhouetted figures move around in the dark, backlit by the fire that continues to burn by the side of the road and by the lights that come from the lit interior of the ambulance. The doors are open now. She knows what will come next.

She shuts her eyes. And prays.

A tap on the glass startles her. She opens her door to stare into her fiancée’s eyes.

Her eyes ask the question. He shakes his head. Lori puts her face in her hands. And shudders.

Joe bends down and reaches in to pull her to him. "We're getting you out of this as soon as we can," he whispers against her dark hair. She nods her head. She simply cannot speak.

He smoothes her hair back from her face, wonders if she even realizes that she was the intended target. He would be scared to death for her sake – and his – if he weren't so supremely mad. He knows the fear will come once the anger wears off. Right now, he needs to hold on to the anger. Someone will pay for this, he determines.

He hears the crunch of tires on frozen ground and looks up. And frowns.

DI Greg Lestrade has just pulled into the scene. "Bloody hell," he thinks as he wraps the blanket securely around Lori and tells her to remain in the car, then straightens up. He goes to meet Lestrade, who steps out of his car and just stands and stares around him for a moment.

Joe comes up to Lestrade and touches him on his shoulder. He gestures toward the ambulance. Grimly, Lestrade nods and moves forward with him. His eyes are on the ambulance – and on the figure covered in a blanket on the stretcher in front of him.

He stares at the stretcher, then raises his head as the tall figure of Sherlock Holmes comes into his field of vision. He takes in the detective's appearance without really reacting to it.

Sherlock moves to the side of the stretcher and looks at the DI, a weapon clutched in his gloved hand. In the lights from the ambulance interior, Lestrade can clearly see the detective's features. There are smudges of black – smoke Lestrade assumes – across his cheek and forehead. His eyes are unreadable.

Lestrade wonders, briefly, where John is.

Both men stare at each other. Lestrade moves toward the stretcher and Joe gets there before him. He slowly raises the blanket.

Sherlock shuts his eyes. And turns away.

OooOooO

In the van interior, Agent Lynn leans over the quiet form of John Watson, and rearranges the long coat to more fully cover his body and to help preserve the doctor's own body heat. He looks at John's drawn features for a moment and shakes his head. Then he goes around and gets into the driver's seat and sits there, taps his fingers on the wheel.

The passenger doors open – both of them – and Enders settles in beside him. Sherlock climbs into the back of the van. He leans over John, looks into his sleeping face, then gently pulls the doctor's still form toward him. He snaps his seatbelt on, then arranges John so the doctor's head is in his lap.

He meets Lynn's eyes in the rearview mirror and nods. Lynn nods back and pulls back onto the main road.

None of them turn to look at the ambulance with its flashing lights or at the still burning car. No one speaks.

Sherlock's mobile rings. He fishes it out of his pocket, glances at the screen.

"Mycroft?"

His brother speaks. Sherlock frowns at the news, and his hand tightens on the phone. He looks down at John's face.

"Understood. I'll call when we're there." He drops the phone into his jacket pocket and pulls John more closely to him. After a moment, Sherlock begins to speak to the agents in the front seat.

He goes over Mycroft's plan – and the events that have occurred. Lynn and Enders, of course, know all about their fellow agent already. What they do not know, he tells them quickly. Both agents glance at each other, then nod at Sherlock.

OooOooO

Maggie Oakton is so tired, she begins to drift. She notes there is a turnoff and then one incredibly long driveway. At the first sight of the Holmes mansion, all lit up in the dark, she stares. Then she loses track as their car quickly drives round to the side. The car pulls up to what Maggie assumes is a garage or car park of some sort. Agent Roman reaches up and pushes a button on a small remote that is clipped to the visor in front of him.

The doors open. The car moves smoothly inside. Lights come on and Maggie blinks at the sudden glare. Blinks – and stares at her surroundings.

_Mother of god, this is a – this cannot be a garage?_ She shakes her head and opens her door. Agent Roaman opens the trunk to remove her luggage.

In a relatively short period of time, she stands in the middle of a sumptuous bedroom, beautifully furnished and decorated, her cases on the floor next to her. She walks around the room once to get her bearings, then finally fishes out essentials from her case and goes into the bathroom.

A few minutes later, Maggie Oakton collapses onto the bed and tries to sleep. She has so many questions – and most of them revolve around the safety of her patient, John Watson, and what occurred back there by the side of the road.

Finally, she sets the alarm on her cell and decides to forego more questions until the morning. She shuts her eyes. As she goes under, she wonders where Sherlock and John are.

OooOooO

They pull up to the front door as planned. The two agents are out the doors in a moment. Enders fumbles with keys, opens the front door and goes in. Lights are already switched on throughout the manor.

Lynn goes round to the passenger side. Together he and Sherlock move John gently out of the van. Sherlock lifts John's silent form in his arms and stares grimly at Agent Lynn.

The three of them move through the front door. After the frigid night air, the warm interior is most welcome to all of them.

A few minutes later, in what will be their room, his and John's, Sherlock stands in the doorway, still holding onto John Watson. Lynn pulls back the covers on the king bed and moves back as Sherlock gently deposits the doctor on the bed.

Lynn nods once at Sherlock and goes out, shuts the door behind him.

Sherlock sighs. Considers John for a moment, then turns to their bags - John's worn duffle and his leather carryon - which Enders has brought up and deposited on the thick carpet at the end of their bed. He and Enders have not exchanged more than ten words in the past few hours. _Rightfully so,_ thinks the detective.

He stares around, then goes back to the bed and begins to remove John's boots. The detective is mentally, emotionally and physically exhausted after the evening's events – and after the past month of hell.

For the first – and probably only time – Sherlock envies the fact that John Watson is unconscious.

He wishes he were.

OooOooO

On her first day in the Holmes manor, Maggie Oakton wakes up – and stares at her surroundings.

Holy Hell, is this how the other half lives?

She checks her cell first before she showers and dresses. She has an acknowledgement from Mycroft's assistant that Galen Dennison will be collected at the airport and brought to the mansion later that day. This fact delights her.

She opens the door to her room, then realizes she was so glaringly tired the night before, she has no earthly idea where she is. She sighs and texts Agent Roaman, who promptly answers her and informs her that he left the night before, after the other agents arrived, but that he will return later that day. He suggests she text Lynn or Enders. She chooses Agent Enders. She stands at the door to her room and stares down the sumptuous hallway.

Honest to god, she is going to have to take time to just wander around this place today and get her bearings.

Enders strides down the hall toward her and nods. She smiles at him and he smiles back.

"If you'll come with me, Doctor Oakton," he says in his quiet voice. His long legs eat up the thick carpet. Maggie hurries to keep up.

Another hallway, artwork, a winding stair, more artwork, through a door, then a short hallway, then more doors. Enders holds one side of the double doors open for her and she walks through. And stops and stares in astonishment.

The kitchen is immense and thoroughly modern, all stainless steel and white tiles. A long tiled counter runs right down the middle of it. The thin morning sun pours in from myriad windows. Agent Lynn sits at one end of the counter, perched on a stool, reading a newspaper.

Sherlock Holmes' tall form is seated at the other end. He is drinking coffee and watching with interest as John Watson stands at the state of the art stove – and prepares breakfast.

All three men turn as she walks in with Enders. John glances up and grins. She instantly warms to the man. _That grin -_

"How do you like your eggs, Maggie?"

"No cheese for me, Doctor Watson, if you don't mind," Lynn says quietly.

Maggie walks into the kitchen and Enders lets the double doors close behind them.

OooOooO

After breakfast (Maggie notes that John cooks but does not eat much,) she has questions but both men suggest she just walk around the manor and get her bearings. Sherlock makes this suggestion directly. He stares at her, then nods once as he leaves the kitchen area quickly. At the double doors, he glances at Enders, then Lynn, both men look up at him and nod imperceptibly.

If John Watson catches this exchange, he does not acknowledge it. John goes on reading his paper. He munches on a single slice of toast with some sort of bright red jam, Maggie notes.

Maggie finishes her coffee and sets the china cup carefully in its saucer. She clasps her hands in front of her and looks at Doctor John Watson.

He puts his cup down, just as carefully, she can see he drinks tea and not coffee, and smiles back.

"Questions, am I right?" he says, a little tiredly. She nods.

"First things first, though Doctor Watson. It's been hours since you had an injection—"

"Actually," John stares down at the tiled floor, the looks up at her.

Her eyes widen. "Not—not in the car?" she asks.

He nods.

"How are you feeling now?" Maggie says. She slips from her chair, goes to stand in front of John and wraps her fingers around his wrist. He sighs and stands there while she takes his pulse.

"Tired. Ribs ache a little. But all right, considering."

Maggie looks at him purses her lips. She wants Galen to start John on different medication this afternoon, in fact, as soon as he gets there and has a chance to go over John's records and talk with the man. And she doesn't want to give John anything that might interfere with that.

They stare at each other for a moment.

"Okay then. I propose this," the doctor moves abruptly and sets his dishes in the deep stainless steel sink. He stacks them carefully and takes hers as she hands them to him. For the moment, he ignores the two agents at the other end of the counter, both of whom are still eating and finishing their coffee.

John carefully places her dishes in the sink, then stands there for a few seconds staring down. He looks up then, right at Maggie, and flashes her that quick grin she has seen a few times – and is rapidly getting used to.

"Why don't we just wander around and get used to the place first and we can discuss this while we walk, okay?"

"That sounds perfect," says Maggie. "But we can't wait too long."

He nods his understanding, then glances around and picks up a dark military-style coat which has been slung down on an opposite counter. He nods at both agents, who look up at them. They glance at each other and at Enders' raised eyebrow, Agent Lynn sets his cup down.

He stands. And follows John and Maggie out the back door into the grey morning light.

As they walk, Lynn hangs back as far as possible but still remains within shouting distance. He tries to give them their privacy. At the same time, no one has told him not to follow John Watson and he intends to follow orders until they are remanded.

Maggie is aware the agent walks behind them. John just ignores him.

She plunges her hands in the pocket of her winter coat and glances around the walled garden.

It is immense. And it has been wintered over – that is the plants have all been covered, some with straw, some with plastic coverings. She can see some sort of greenhouse at the end of the path. She tries to picture it in the spring, when the garden plots are in bloom. Or in the summer, when everything is green and growing and brilliant.

It is freezing cold and their breath huffs out in front of them as they walk.

They discuss John's medication schedule – and he nods his understanding. Both of them glance at their watches.

"Where'd Sherlock get to?" she asks quietly. When he is not around, she has begun to call him Sherlock. When they are face to face, he remains Mr. Holmes. She sighs. So much to get used to.

John glances at her as they walk and smiles. "No telling. Probably setting up his lab right now. Lots to do. I imagine all of his equipment has been packed away from last time."

"Last time?" Maggie keeps pace with John Watson, but wishes he'd walk a little more slowly. And quite soon, she is going to have to get out of this cold air.

John guides them through a door at the end of the garden wall and then around the corner of the manor. For the first time she gets a good look at what most people back home would refer to as their front yard.

"Oh my," Maggie Oakton says under her breath. All she can see are sweeping lawns - the grass is all the color of winter wheat now - what looks like an actual park in the distance, a formal garden, it, too, wintered over and a possible orchard, in addition to one, no make that two streams, and even little bridges here and there further away on the grounds.

She glances to her left and can just make out the corner of what she assumes is the port-cochere, the covered driveway that leads up to the front entryway. She smiles at the rather stilted word. She really needs someone to take her entirely around the place and name every single bit of it - "Brit pik" it for her, she thinks with a smile. She imagines the garages are further left and around the side of the manor house. "Oh my," she says again.

John just laughs.

At one point, as they walk along the front pathway, he stops and stares ahead of him and Maggie wonders what he really sees.

John is very quiet this morning, she thinks. Her mind goes back to the description of the good doctor. And _very quiet_ hardly comes into it. The thought makes her frown momentarily.

He shakes himself slightly, as if he were lost in thought, then turns to look at her. He pierces Maggie with his dark blue gaze.

"It's freezing out here," John Watson says quietly. "Ready to go in and ask those questions?"

She looks at his tired face. And nods. It is only as he guides them to the front door, that she realizes he never answered her question about Sherlock's lab.

OooOooO

John, Maggie Oakton and Agent Lynn walk down one of the long halls, and John stops at a set of double doors. The doors are made of what looks like carved mahogany panels. He holds one door open and ushers Maggie inside. He stares at Lynn, who turns to take up a position outside the door. John nods once and follows Maggie into the room. He closes the doors behind them.

She turns around in a slow circle. "Okay, when you said Library—"

John grins tiredly. "I really meant Library."

He ignores the walls of floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, the thousands of volumes, many of them leather-covered, the overstuffed chairs and tables and lamps, the stacks of papers and magazines, and walks over to one of the windows to pull back the long damask draperies. The morning light streams in and hits a spot on the floor directly between two chairs. A small table sits between the chairs. John indicates one of the chairs for Maggie and sits in the one that is a bit back from the sun—and a bit in shadow.

She sits down and carefully sets her soft sided briefcase beside her. They look at each other for a moment. Then John Watson leans forward slightly, clasps his hands in front of him and takes a deep breath.

"So – " he says with quiet sadness. "How long do I have, Doctor Oakton?"

Startled, she stares back at him. Involuntarily, she turns her head to glance at the door.

"He can't hear us," says John. His dark blue eyes continue to stare into her brilliant green ones.

"How long, Maggie – and does Sherlock know?"

Maggie's breath quickens, as she stares back at the doctor. They look at each other – and a small part of her splinters.

She slowly leans down to remove a folder from her briefcase. She withdraws several sheets of paper and hands them over to John. She watches him as he takes the pages from her.

She cannot read his expression. On reflection, she thinks that might be a good thing.

He takes them from her, settles back and begins to read.

OooOooO

Sherlock stares around the room he will use as a lab. Before he begins, he glances up at the overhead lighting – bright fluorescents. Good. Excellent. The space is very well lit. He shrugs out of his suit jacket, drapes it across a chair. Then he rolls up his sleeves, and roots in one of the boxes for notebook and pens. He sets up the microscope, centers it in the middle of the table and unpacks slides, pipettes. Working quickly, he moves back and forth between the table and various boxes, noting what is written on the outside in black marker pen, then passing up one for the other, to find what he needs.

Under his clever, impatient hands, the small makeshift lab quickly takes shape.

Finally, he stands in the middle of the room, looks around, runs a dusty hand through his dark curls, then pulls out his phone and sends a quick text. He goes to the door and waits. A few minutes later, there is a tap on the door. Sherlock opens it. Agent Enders stands there. He hands the detective a small soft-sided cooler. Both men stare at each other for a moment, then Sherlock nods at Enders. Enders nods back, turns and leaves.

The detective takes the small cooler and holds it in his hands for a few seconds. He places it on the end of the table. Crossing back to the door, he locks it, then comes back to the cooler. He washes his hands thoroughly at the sink, then turns to unzip the cooler. He reaches in to lift out several small black cases. One of them is simply marked MF.

He carries all the small cases with him and places them to the left of the microscope.

Sherlock sits on the tall lab stool. He unzips the case marked MF and removes one of the small vials. He holds it up to the light and stares at the – nearly – colorless liquid for a moment. He frowns.

He flips through one of the notebooks, finds his notes, and reaches for the first slide.

OooOooO

John finishes signing all the new consent forms she hands him. He hands them all back and watches as she carefully places them in a folder and drops the folder into her briefcase. He wonders how many more she could possibly have. This makes the second round of forms in two days.

He sits upright – and tries to smile at her. But it's strained.

"This Doctor Dennison—" he says.

"Galen Dennison," Maggie says quietly. "He was my first choice. Mycroft – Mr. Holmes' assistant says he will be collected at the airport and brought here today."

John nods tiredly. "Good. Because Maggie –"

She nods at him.

He smiles grimly. "I do not intend to spend my time being exhausted, taking frequent naps and when I'm done napping, going to sleep for a few hours."

He leans forward conspiratorially again. "What can you and this Dennison do about that?"

She looks at him thoughtfully. "Well, it's not really up to me, but—"

"But—" says John. He looks at her expectantly.

She sighs. "Okay, there are a few things we can try."

As she outlines one proposed treatment, she warns him that she is not, professionally, supposed to be having this conversation with him. John just nods tiredly.

She keeps speaking.

OooOooO

As if by agreement, they all meet in the kitchen for lunch, eschewing the huge formal dining room just off the hallway.

Maggie busies herself between the fridge and the counter top; Agent Lynn helps. Enders opens up cabinets and looks for dishware. John fills glasses with their beverages of choice. None of them question the absence of household staff. It is understood there won't be any.

Sherlock is nowhere to be seen. John tells the others not to expect him – but makes a mental note to send one of them down to the lab with a meal anyway.

Partway through lunch, Agent Roaman wanders in to the kitchen. He is accompanied by a small slender man with dark brown hair, a receding hairline and a quiet unassuming smile.

"Galen," Maggie stands and makes introductions all the way around.

John shakes the doctor's hand and studies him curiously. Maggie offers to fix lunch for Doctor Dennison but he just shakes his head.

"Thanks, Mags, but my stomach hasn't adjusted to the time change yet. Maybe later."

He glances around the kitchen once, accepts a glass of ice water, then sits down at the long counter top.

He and John glance at each other and finally, John puts down his fork and fixes the doctor with a stare.

"I know I'm jumping the gun here, Doctor Dennison, but I think I want to get started as quickly as possible."

John looks from Dennison to Maggie and back. "Can we make that happen?"

Doctor Galen Dennison stares at John Watson and smiles. "I would like that, Doctor Watson. I would like that very much indeed."

As the three of them talk, Agents Roaman, Enders and Lynn leave the kitchen for a few minutes. A few minutes later, they all come back in and the three agents stand there and stare at John Watson, Maggie and Doctor Dennison.

Agent Enders carries a morning paper, one of the late editions. He places it carefully on the countertop and scoots it in front of John.

John glances at it, then picks it up and stares at the headline.

No one speaks. John looks up at Enders. "Where is the bastard?" he says.

Maggie's eyes widen. Galen Dennison just raises an eyebrow.

John repeats in a take no prisoners voice. "I mean it. Is he down in that lab or what?"

Enders clears his throat. "We have not seen Mr. Holmes since he began to set up his laboratory this morning."

"Fine," says John. He stands up, ignores the two doctors to his side and walks out of the kitchen, followed closely by Agent Lynn. At the door, John turns to fix both doctors with his quiet stare. "Don't get lost. I'll be right back."

"Oh my," Maggie says. Dennison just looks at her. Has he burst in on some sort of domestic or what?

Maggie picks up the paper that John tossed down on the countertop, opens it up, and reads the headlines.

"Good grief!" she says. She hands the paper to Dennison. He reads it, then both of them turn to stare at the two agents standing there.

OooOooO

"Bloody hell, Sherlock, I thought I had made it quite clear, back there in St. Anne's, that this is my life. You cannot do this – this -," the doctor breaks off. He paces backwards and forwards, around the lab.

Sherlock folds his arms in front of his chest and stares at the doctor curiously.

John comes to a stop in front of him and runs one hand through his hair.

He stares murder at the detective.

"Finished?" says Sherlock dryly. John just stares at him. Sherlock sighs and fishes his phone out of the pocket of his slacks. He thumbs through the messages, hands the mobile over to John.

Still staring murder at his partner, John takes the phone, then glances down to read the screen. He frowns. Reads it again.

Then he looks up.

"I am bloody well going to kill Mycroft Holmes," he says.

Sherlock purses his lips and studies his Army doctor. "Get in line," he says quietly.

OooOooO

Anthea brings him the morning paper, the late editions, with their coffee, then sits in front of his desk and sips at hers, while he reads the various headlines. He pauses at one.

That would be the headline that states that one Doctor John H. Watson, formerly a Captain in the 5th Northumberland Fusiliers, and decorated veteran of the Afghanistan campaign, has died from injuries received during an unfortunate accident when the ambulance he was being conveyed in overturned on an icy road and slammed into a concrete pylon.

And the famous Consulting Detective, Sherlock Holmes, who traveled with him, remains in critical condition at St. Bartholomew's hospital. And is not expected to survive.

He nods at the news and raises his cup of coffee.

OooOooO

Maggie and Dennison sit at the countertop, talking quietly. Agent Roaman has snagged a cup of coffee and left. Enders sits at the end of the counter and continues to read his newspaper. From time to time, he receives a text, which he glances at and answers immediately. The two doctors ignore him.

John comes back into the kitchen, followed by Agent Lynn. He walks up to the two doctors, stares at the paper in Maggie's hands. She slowly puts it down on the countertop.

He smiles grimly "Where were we?" he asks.

OooOooO

Later that afternoon, John Watson has his first session with Galen Dennison. They sit in the library and talk for a long time. Afterward, Galen goes over John's meds schedule – and shakes his head. He asks John how well he feels his current meds are helping.

John does not beat around the bush. "Not at all," he says grimly.

Dennison nods. "Maggie is absolutely correct. We definitely need to make a change here." He glances up at John.

"How do you feel right now, Doctor Watson?"

John shakes his head tiredly. "Like I always feel. As if my blood is on fire. And I want to tear my skin off. Not frantic. Not yet. But when it hits…" his voice trails off. Dennison stares thoughtfully at him – then nods.

John does not mention the slight shadows he notices in the corners of the room. He sees no reason to bring this up. They are, after all, not really there. Why bother Dennison with them?

Dennison sighs. "Maggie emailed me your records and I have pages of notes from Dr. Merit. I also brought along—" he breaks off and stares at the good doctor.

"Are you close to experiencing an attack?" he asks quietly.

John shakes his head. "No. No shaking; no tremors. Just the suffocating heat."

Dennison nods. "Okay then. Let's go to your room. You might be more comfortable there."

Both men stand up.

OooOooO

Sherlock stands up, stretches and glances at his phone to check the time. Bloody hell, he's been down here for over half the day. He needs to check on John.

He carefully packs away the drugs, labels and cross labels each syringe and vial, and packs everything into the soft cooler. Then he texts Agent Enders, who comes and takes the cooler from him.

Sherlock marks where he left off in his notes, washes his hands for the upteenth time, then switches off the lights and locks the lab. His long stride takes him back to the upper level and to their bedroom. He opens the door to find John Watson sitting on the edge of the bed, one of his boots in his hand.

John stares at the carpet. Sherlock notes his free hand is clenched in the duvet cover. He is sweating. Sherlock stares at John.

"John-?"

"Sherlock, I – I really do not want to talk with you right now. "

John avoids the detective's stare and continues to look down at the floor. Sherlock wonders what the attraction is.

That's not all he wonders.

"John, I know Doctor Dennison arrived here earlier, Roaman informed me. And I know you've already met with him once."

"Sherlock?" The doctor finally looks up at the lanky detective and fixes him with a dark blue stare. The doctor's tone of voice should come as a warning to the detective.

"Yes, John?"

"I'd like to remind you that it's been – what? – four weeks since I actually killed anyone?"

"John?"

"That's a very long time between adrenalin rushes, Sherlock."

Dead silence.

"So you might – just – want – to keep the hell away from me - just while this new drug works its way through my system. While Maggie and Dennison figure out what's going on in my head."

Dead silence.

Then. "John –"

"Not kidding here, Sherlock."

"John, I know what you –"

"Sherlock, sod it! You don't know a god damned thing about what I am going through!" John finishes pulling on his boot, stares murder at the detective, who stands a few feet in front of him.

Frozen silence.

John rubs his face, stares down at the carpet. "Look. I know you've been there for me every second. Literally every minute since – since the Wellington. And, frankly, I find that amazing. Not that you wouldn't – aw hell. Just amazing. You've been – amazing."

The doctor looks up and his dark blue gaze spears Sherlock where he stands. "And I'm being honest when I tell you I just do not remember most of that – that – there at the end. I do remember what went on before. I think. Most of it. And I have promised myself I will talk with Maggie about this – thing – that has happened to me. When I'm able."

He shakes his head and stares beyond the detective at the walls. Silk? Are the walls actually covered in green silk? _Bloody hell, the things people spend money on._

He looks back at Sherlock. He can see the pain and confusion in his partner's eyes. And figures it must mirror the pain and confusion in his own.

"Sherlock – look. Here's the thing. I signed every consent form Maggie – and Merit had. And this new guy – Dennison? I've signed his bloody forms too. Whatever he brings me – I'll sign. And I'll continue to sign every damn consent form they come up with. This means you will have – will _always_ have – full access to my medical reports, my records, hell, even my bloody dumb ass dreams, right down to the conversations I have with Maggie. When I have them. If I have them. I want you – no, Sherlock – I _need_ you to know everything that's going on with me."

John focuses on the detective's grey eyes. He licks his lips and shakes his head slightly.

"I – I've counted on the fact that you did – you do – know what's going on in my head, Sherlock. Truly. And I need that right now. I need the assurance that there are two of us in this. Not just me."

His gaze softens and he looks beyond the other man at something only he can see.

"Not just me," John repeats slowly.

Sherlock doesn't move a muscle. He just stares. And waits.

Then it comes out. "Sherlock – I'm just so fucking angry right now. I cannot begin to tell you how angry I am. About Sally Donovan. About Mycroft's man. I've never even met the man but he's dead. Both of them. Dead because of me – because of us – because of this thing that's happened."

Sherlock stares at him. Realizes that still his Army doctor doesn't know it all. He doesn't know about the latest threat – about 221B – about the wholesale destruction of everything they own - about Mrs. Hudson's flat. He must tell him, Sherlock thinks. But not now. God, not now. He remains silent. Waits.

John swipes a hand through his hair. "Bloody hell, I don't even know if he has – had – a family. I don't even know that for Christ's sakes. And now we're stuck here in this stupid –" the doctor breaks off and studies his boots for a moment.

Sherlock waits.

"Listen, love –" the detective startles at the use of the word – starts to smile - until John glances up at him. "Listen. I _need_ you right now. But I know that the most important thing to you is that you get down to that lab and get to work and I understand that. I do. I know you're determined to find something that will work for me – for us – both of us."

John looks back up at Sherlock. He frowns. "And I appreciate that. I know it's killing you to just stand here and not be – not do – what you Do. And I want you to get to it. You don't have to come check up on me. There are two doctors here for Christ sakes and Mycroft's people are all over the place."

John looks steadily at the man he loves. "Go. Be. _Sherlock._ "

John shakes his head. "I just – when I sit here and know that you and Oakton and hell, Mycroft's people, all of you, expect me to put a bloody bullet in my brain the next time I go into one of these attacks –"

John's voice raises and it is fueled with frustration. "I'm not going to try anything, Sherlock. Can you get that through your head? I'm not. I don't even – truly – remember what was going through my mind back there in St. Anne's. I just know I was frantic, desperate. Scared shitless. And bloody hell, Sherlock, I need you and everyone else in this place to know that. To just understand that! "

He looks at his partner.

And Sherlock can now see the anger in John's eyes, see it in his entire body. John's body is tense as a wound spring. He's literally coiled in upon himself as he sits there on the edge of their bed.

Sherlock takes a breath.

"John –"

"Sherlock – just shut up. Just shut the fuck up. Would you do that for me?"

John stands and walks to the door, pauses when he realizes that one of Mycroft's men is probably right outside. Then decides he doesn't give a shit.

He twists the knob in a hand that is steady as a rock, yanks the door open - and storms out. The door swings back and just misses slamming into the wall. The world's only consulting detective stares after him, open-mouthed.

Agent Lynn narrows his eyes at John as he strides out of their room and begins to walk down the hallway. The doctor's body language could not be clearer. He is angry as hell. Supremely, thoroughly ticked off. Lynn knows Holmes – and Holmes alone – has managed to bring out this anger, this total frustration on the part of the good doctor and Capt. He suspects no one else can elicit such a – determined - response.

He has to respect Sherlock for that.

John Watson stops, turns, fixes Lynn with a gaze that has caused Lieutenants to piss their pants. "Well, are you coming the fuck with or not?"

And he pivots around and walks away from Sherlock.

Lynn turns to stare at Sherlock, who nods once, curtly, and he follows John down the long hall.

"Well, holy shite, John," says Sherlock. He runs a hand through his dark curls. He frowns after John's – and Lynn's – retreating figures.

His only coherent thought is: _"At least it wasn't Enders on guard at their door this afternoon."_

He is also aware, ironically, that he has never been so turned on by John Watson in his entire life. He groans.

OooOooO

John strides down the hallway, followed closely by Mycroft's man. His thoughts are in turmoil. He wishes desperately he had his gun. Any gun. He'd go outside right now and blast the holy hell out of anything that moves.

Upon a moments' reflection, he realizes it is probably a good thing that he has not been given back his weapon. Perhaps he can go down to the lake and throw rocks.

At the outer hallway, he pauses, then snags his coat where it lays from earlier that morning and goes on out the front door. He is aware that Agent Lynn follows close behind him. Outside, in the frigid air, John comes to a sudden stop. He takes a deep breath of freezing air – and tries to calm his heart rate, to slow his breathing.

Maggie Oakton and Galen Dennison were not kidding when they said this new treatment might cause – intense feelings. _For 'intense feelings'_ thinks John, _read fucking anger_. John wants nothing more at this moment than to beat the shite out of something. Or someone.

He takes another few breaths of the frosty air. Then John turns to stare at Lynn, while he finishes buttoning up the ridiculously expensive coat that Anthea —he assumes it was Anthea – brought him to replace his missing one. Had to have been her. God knows neither Holmes brother would have had a clue.

He stares at Lynn while he pulls on his gloves. Finished, he just stands there.

And continues to stare at Lynn.

Lynn raises an eyebrow. "Well, sir?" he asks ironically.

John shrugs. "Just need to walk some things off. Follow or don't. All the same to me."

He pivots and starts to walk in the direction of what he thinks are the stables. Stables. Christ. It is way too cold out here for man or beast, so he wonders where they keep the sodding horses in the winter.

Presumably there is some sort of heated horse park somewhere where the rich take their – his thoughts break off and he stops in his tracks. Again. And waits for Lynn to catch up to him.

John turns to acknowledge the agent with a raised eyebrow. The two men stare at each other. Then John relents and flashes him one of his quick grins.

"I am guessing you pretty much heard everything back there," he says as Lynn comes abreast of him.

Lynn looks carefully at John Watson. "No sir. Didn't hear a damned thing. Sir."

John nods. "Good man. Well, in that case, Agent Lynn – what in bloody hell is your given name anyway?"

Lynn sighs. Rules are rules. "Just Lynn will do. Sir."

John shakes his head. "Not good enough. Either you tell me – or you're Bob."

Lynn looks steadily at him. "Actually, Sir, Bob's my uncle."

John stares. Starts to smile at the quip, then pierces Lynn with his dark blue gaze. "You aren't kidding, are you?" he demands.

Lynn shakes his head, grins. "No sir. Bob – really is - my uncle."

He comes to an instant decision, then steps toward John – and holds out his hand. "And I'm Jacob. Jake for short. Glad to meet you, Capt. Watson."

John looks at Lynn, at his outstretched hand, takes it firmly in his gloved one.

"All right. But I haven't been a Captain for a long time. It's just Doctor Watson now. Or John."

Lynn smiles grimly. "You could have fooled me, Captain –  Doctor Watson."

John grins. "Okay, Jake. Let's go see what's going on in the ruddy stables, then. Presumably there are horses or some such around here. Although god knows, I haven't seen hide nor hair of staff, so the horses have probably all been sent to the bloody Palace to keep the corgis company. But let's check it out anyway."

John begins walking quickly. "If you're fast enough, you might even be able to keep me from throwing my sorry ass under one of them. Just for spite, you understand."

The two men stride toward the stables together through the late afternoon sun.

"Given the size – and cost - of this place, it's probably ruddy unicorns," John mutters under his breath.

Agent Lynn smiles.

OooOooO

Sherlock Holmes stands in the middle of their bedroom and stares at the door that John Watson has just stormed through.

Finally, he sits on the edge of the bed, where John sat, and stares around slowly at his surroundings. He gets up, crosses to the window and looks out. But he cannot see John or Lynn. He thinks of the look on John's face – the almost desperate look coupled with intense anger and frustration.

He cannot let his doctor wander around in this freezing cold. Not now. Especially not now.

Sherlock comes to a decision, snags his jacket and walks out of the room. He slams the door behind him.

OooOooO

John and Agent Lynn wander back from their walk, talking quietly together. Lynn stops speaking. John glances around – to see Sherlock's tall figure waiting patiently by the front entryway. John nods once at Lynn, who nods back. The agent breaks away and takes the long way around to the side entrance into the kitchen.

John walks up to Sherlock and stands there.

The two men stare at each other. Sherlocks' dark curls dance in the frigid afternoon air.

Sherlock stares at John Watson. "Freaking cold out here, isn't it?" the detective says dryly.

"Sherlock, I swear to god I can take you down this minute if you don't—"

"Don't what? God, John, I am just so turned on by you right now —"

"Shut the hell up, Sherlock." John glances around the entrance to the Manor. No one in sight.

He stares at Sherlock, then closes the distance between them and tilts his head slightly to look right into the detective's grey-green eyes.

" _Haven't seen green for ages_ ," thinks John. Out loud all he say is, "Sherlock, I've got two things to say to you."

The detective simply raises an eyebrow and stares back impassively at his Army doctor.

"One of them is that sometimes you drive me straight up the wall, you know that? You and your brother do not get to DO this anymore, to make decisions like this without me, particularly you, now that there's the two of us, got that?"

Instantly Sherlock's mind flashes back to the day John was taken – and the doctor's actions on that day. He starts to say something, when John reaches out and grabs his jacket front, yanks the detective closer to him.

John reaches up to whisper into Sherlock's lips. "And the second thing is: once again, you bloody git, you've got too many damned clothes on."

He pulls back and jerks his head sideways at the front door to the mansion.

"Inside. Now."

Sherlock studies him for a second, a slow grin on his face. Then he simply walks through the front door, his hands in the pockets of his jacket, a slight smirk on his face.

"Damn straight," says John. He follows his lover inside and slams the front door behind them.

OooOooO


	8. Chapter 8

**These characters in their current incarnation belong to the BBC and in their original incarnation, to the estate of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.**

**THE BOYS OF BAKER STREET**

**CH. 8**

**WARNING: MEN. GOING. AT. IT. The rating is there for a reason, people.**

**If two men proclaiming their love for each other gives you pause, please look away.**

**NOTE: This ongoing work is a Trilogy.  This is Book Two.   This work occasionally references events that occurred in Book One:  THERE BUT FOR THE GRACE OF JOHN WATSON. If you have not read that work, you might not "get" some of the references in this story. You might want to stop right here and go read GRACE first, then come back to BOYS.  Otherwise, your reading experience will not have the intensity that I labored so hard to create for you.**

OooOooO

**Excerpt of Transcript: Session # 1**

**Doctor John H. Watson, Patient.**

**Galen Dennison, Addiction Psychiatrist.**

**GD: Tell me about your relationship with your partner, with Sherlock Holmes.**

**JW: What do you want to know?**

**GD: Well for a start, how long have the two of you been together?**

**JW:**

**GD: John?**

**JW: It doesn't really matter.**

**GD: Why not?**

**JW: Because it will never be long enough.**

OooOooO

The two men shrug out of their coats as they come through the front door, their movements sudden, urgent. Both jackets are tossed at the round mahogany table that sits in the middle of the entry way, and both hit and then slide against the dark polished wood – slide to the floor, ignored.

Sherlock heads for the curving stairs that lead to the upper level of the mansion, his heart rate already accelerated, swift.

Enders stands off to the side, at the entrance to the small hallway that leads to the kitchen. He speaks quietly to the two agents Mycroft has sent over to act as their relief while he and Lynn get some much needed sleep.

Enders glances up, "Mr. Holmes –" Sherlock, notes the two men, knows who they are – and why they are here - and ignores them. His long legs take the deeply carpeted steps two at a time.

John glances at the two new agents, notes that Jake Lynn has just entered the front hallway from the kitchen – all four agents now stand there—and stare. They all stare at him and then stare upward at Sherlock's rapidly retreating figure.

He supposes that Enders wants to introduce the two agents to him and to Sherlock.

He could give a fuck.

He glances up at the stairs and forces himself to stride – instead of run - after Sherlock. But he, also, takes them two at a time.

At the top of the stairs, John pauses, glances down at Lynn and narrows his eyes – the message could not be clearer if the exArmy man had shouted.

If anyone so much as shows their sorry ass in the upstairs hallway and particularly outside Sherlock and John's bedroom door – there will be hell to pay.

Lynn's eyes widen. Enders stares, then turns to the two relief agents. Clears his throat. "Guess we'll make introductions later. Let me show you around the house and grounds."

Lynn follows behind, a slow smile on his face.

OooOooO

In their room, John shuts and locks their door in one determined movement. He assumes his unspoken message to Lynn was received – and understood. If not, he feels equal at that moment in time to beating the holy shite out of each of the four agents – two at a time, if need be.

John is filled up, consumed with so many conflicting feelings, that he nearly can't contain them all - lust for Sherlock, frustration, fear of the future – his, the immediacy of the moment, fear of the future - theirs, sexual desire, the intense personal connection that comes with shared danger, lust for Sherlock - did we mention lust? And underneath it all, he feels a frisson, a tiny sense of despair – tinged with so much fucking anger that this _thing_ has been done to him - to them both - that he, almost, can't see straight - anger, coupled with overwhelming want for this man in front of him, this man under his hands, want that beats in time with his pulse. It pounds out a steady rhythm, as if somewhere, heard only by him, only by John Watson, a clock is slowly, surely ticking, ticking away for him.

He tries to ignore the terrible knowledge that it probably is.

He turns to Sherlock, who stands in front of him, and stares back at his Army doctor, his eyes wide. The detective's breathing quickens and he recognizes the sudden urgent need in John, which matches the sudden, urgent need in his own body. He sees it reflected back to him, near total in its intensity, as it glares at him from John's dark eyes.

_Whatever John wants,_ Sherlock thinks, _whatever he needs …_

And he's momentarily amazed, again, as he always is when they come together, that this shared intimacy between them, this explosion of sudden desire, of the need to connect, to become one – to fuck - overwhelms them both at the same time, threatens to drown out all sight and sound and reason. His heart beats so fast, he is lightheaded.

There will be no slow, sweet love-making in this room tonight, Sherlock knows.

And bloody hell, if John doesn't put his hands on him, right now, this very moment, he will go mad.

John glares back at the detective with eyes the color of a storm at sea – shoves Sherlock against the wall – green silk be damned - and tears at his shirt. The detective reaches shaking hands to help – and John bats them away. He literally growls at the detective in his urgent need to get his hands on Sherlock's body, to feel the cool marble skin under his hot, greedy palms. His steady fingers, doctor fingers, make short work of the buttons on Sherlock's dark shirt – he notes it's the dark purple one today - Sherlock's "Please fuck me, John," shirt – and Oh God, Yes, he hastens to oblige.

Sherlock's eyes have gone a near translucent gray- green, but John has no time for it.

He has the shirt open, the marble chest revealed, and then he slips one of the wrist buttons out of its hole, and tears the shirt off Sherlock's chest and down one arm. The remaining sleeve snags on the detective's watch and John yanks at it impatiently, all but rips the stubborn remaining button loose from its moorings. The purple fabric falls at their feet in a heap – and John wraps greedy hands around his lover's chest, splays his strong fingers around and against the muscles of Sherlock's back, then yanks the pale body toward his - and thinks "Mine."

Sherlock's breathe hitches as John's mouth finds one of his nipples and sucks. He throws his head back and John sees the tendons strain under the pale skin, watches as they tense and tighten, sees them as they stand out, taut ridges under the smooth plane of his lover's neck, encircled now with only the one simple chain and dog tag, which shines in the evening light. At the sight of their mutual declaration of devotion, of joining, John's eyes widen and he begins to plant hot filthy kisses along the marble chest, even as his hand reaches down to work the fastenings of the taller man's slacks.

"John," Sherlock gasps, his breath comes hot between them as his growing erection becomes all too obvious under John's impatient fingers.

Sherlock slightly bends toward his Army doctor, their erections now rock hard between them. John feels Sherlock's cock strain against the soft fabric, which slides along the rougher fabric of his own jeans. He groans aloud with impatience, as the detective reaches down to open the slacks. John allows it, then temporarily abandons laving Sherlock's nipples with his demanding tongue long enough to bend down and tug the damn trousers off the man's impossibly long legs.

He slides down the detective's body, as Sherlock quickly toes out of his shoes, kicks them away. John yanks on the slacks as he kneels at Sherlock's feet and Sherlock steps out of them. John tosses them aside, then makes short work of the dark socks and dark silk drawers, as the taller man raises first one unsteady foot, then the other.

Both men are near hyperventilating - their breath comes from somewhere deep, frantic. Sherlock trembles with anticipation. And oh God how he needs this, needs John to take the lead here, now, in their room. Needs him to relieve the detective of the near constant strain he has been under to give his partner the care he needs – and so deserves. To relinquish, for these few precious moments, all control, to have John completely, totally take charge and lead them toward the shared heaven – or hell – of completion.

Either destination works for Sherlock.

His tall body begins to shake with want. And when he at last, stands naked in front of John, he shudders as the warm room air hits his skin, trembles with how very Good it is, how good it will be when the doctor touches him at last.

John does not remove his eyes from Sherlock's, even as he tears at the buttons of his own shirt, thankful that for once, he has foregone the usual jumper. In a moment, it, too, lies on the floor on top of the silk one already there.

He stands just long enough to unzip and tug at the dark jeans he wears, and in a moment, they join the small pile of clothing at their feet. He impatiently yanks at his socks and boxers and finally, stands in front of Sherlock, naked, except for his own single dog tag and for the white tape that encircles his healing ribs. The hair on his chest gleams a dull gold in the evening light and Sherlock's breath catches.

He immediately sinks to his knees and takes Sherlock's rigid cock in his mouth, hollows his cheeks, begins to suck, to claim, to mark. But it's too much, too fast for his partner and he gasps, "John…John!" his long fingers grab at John's silky hair – and he yanks John's head back and off his cock with a groan.

John's head jerks up and for a moment, both men stare into each other's eyes. Sherlock's soul is pierced by his Army doctor's dark eyes, eyes gone the color of a deepening bruise, and he sinks to his knees in front of John, almost in supplication.

He takes John's head in his hands, and kisses him full on the lips. John answers readily. He kisses him back. They trade hot, wet kisses that devour each other's mouths, asking, demanding, giving, receiving. Sherlock's tongue roams in John's mouth, probes, slick against his teeth and tongue. John allows the intimate invasion and his own tongue answers, at home in the other man's sweet hot mouth.

Their hands scrabble for each other's bodies and they fall sideways onto the soft, dense pile of the carpet. Sherlock's elegant hands, artist's hands, roam eagerly over John's sturdy torso, much too thin now, and when they encounter the white tape, they go gentle, skim over the surface, and then roam lower to pull John toward him, to hold his body close. His fingers probe, touch, and kneed John's skin, he digs into the muscles of John's lower back and upper thigh, splays his palms over the surface of the doctor's eager body as if he is memorizing John all over again.

Mindful of John's recent injuries, he finally uses his hips and hands and legs to roll them together so he ends up on his back on the soft pile, the doctors' body now supine on top of his.

John gladly rolls with the pressure until he lies, fully stretched out, on top of his partner. His entire body is taut, tense with heat, sweat-slick skin against skin and straining cock against cock. He doesn't care that there is a very large, very comfortable bed a few feet away. Neither one of them give it a thought.

Their world has narrowed to this: the hot, damp sweat of their bodies as they lay together, one on top of the other, the sweet friction as their cocks rub together, as Sherlock groans and ruts against John's hipbones, and as his Army doctor gasps and rubs back.

John's breath comes in short gasps as he buries his face in Sherlock's neck. The dark curls are slightly longer there and he nuzzles for a moment, like a child would, then brushes his lips over a single ebony curl, finally goes lower to plant kisses in the sweet straining curve of his lover's neck and shoulder.

John's name erupts from somewhere in Sherlock's diaphragm, expelled in short breathy moans. "John...John..."

John goes lower, sweeps hot filthy kisses along the white chest. His tongue finds, encircles first one nipple, teases it erect, until Sherlock cries from sheer pleasure. Then John's clever tongue licks its way across the middle of the nearly too thin chest, tastes the sparse silky curls of Sherlock's chest hair as it tastes, licks, nibbles until it finds the other nipple and laves it to attention also.

Sherlock groans in sweet agony. "John…" he pants. "John."

He doesn't know what he wants to say – is there a need to say anything? Just the smaller man's name. His wonderful name. His brilliant name. "John. John." And he says it, repeats it over and over and over again. And hopes it is enough to let his Army doctor know...to tell him ... Sherlock groans in desperation. He can't verbalize. Why can't he _think_? Both of them, he realizes, have gone a little mad, lust-crazed, with the overwhelming urgent need to connect, to join, one of them inside the other – never mind which one _._

_But quickly,_ Sherlock prays, _oh be quick._

If he can't _tell_ John, then he must _see_ John. Sherlock's hand roams to John's sweet head, he grabs a handful of the dark blonde silk - and yanks. Hard. John's head snaps back and his eyes widen – Sherlock clearly sees the blown pupils in the twilight glow that comes through their window – "John..." he whispers. "John...Please!"

John's dark eyes stare into Sherlock's pale grey-green ones and he groans now in desperation at the sight of his lover's staring eyes - and lush pink lips.

"Sherlock…Sherlock!" His thin lips capture those perfect full ones, tinged now with faint rose…and he notes for the thousandth time how every bit of Sherlock is marble pale, except for his lips and those places where John's lips and teeth and hands have already marked him, left leavings of pale pink or light red along the skin, marked him as his own.

And Sherlock's lips—God, those lips… John growls - he literally growls and takes those lush curves, covers them with his own, begins to suck, to tease, to nibble. He yanks both hands away from the detectives chest and places them on each side of his lover's face, holds Sherlock's head steady in his grasp, then captures that mouth once more with his own. No need to force it open with his tongue, Sherlock's beautiful mouth opens for him willingly and John's tongue goes roaming inside, as he once again claims the interior with an impatient probing tongue, the forefront of an invading army.

John pulls back and kisses, then licks the swollen, rose-bruised lips again, finally bends his head and plants more frenzied kisses along Sherlock's jaw line and down the marble column of his lover's neck.

And all the while they kiss - deep kisses that mingle their shared breaths - they call to each other, repeating each other's names, over and over again, first in desperate gasps, then with the growing intensity of need, of want. It feels like their first time coming together - their first time all over again - and their bodies and heads and hearts are filled with the same breathless urgency, stunning wonder and overwhelming desire - desire that threatens to drown their senses and dash their souls on the rocks of some distant shore.

Sherlock's voice – smoke dark - sets up the litany…."John…John…" and John answers, all but growls his partner's name – "Sherlock" - in husky tones, his voice gone raw with pain and want.

Sherlock rubs against John again and again. His long, lean body moves of its own accord, as if he no longer controls it, as if his muscles and tendons, and the very skin over his bones, craves more contact with the smaller man's skin - and the friction - oh, god, the glorious ache of their cocks as they slide against each other - as they rut, like animals - makes him groan with wanton desire. He can't stop panting his lover's name - "John, Sweet John!"

John lowers himself down Sherlock's pale torso and kisses him frantically as he goes, kisses him everywhere, every pale inch of blessed skin he can reach. And what he doesn't kiss – he licks.

John's kisses are born of heat, of flame; they are a slow scorching fire; and Sherlock feels himself consumed.

Then John reaches down between them with one firm hand, grips them both in his strong fingers, holds their cocks together – and squeezes.

Sherlock cries out with pleasure, and John wonders how sound-proofed their room really is.

He finds he doesn't give a damn.

He raises his head slightly, his eyes wide, pupils dark, and finds the pale grey eyes, gone dark as hardened steel now, asks the question with one raised pale eyebrow.

"Drawer," Sherlock gasps.

John raises himself on one hand, reaches for the bedside table that is now a scant few inches above their heads, finds the small knob and yanks. He has to rise further on one shaking palm, splayed against the soft carpet on one side of the detective's dark head. His fingers find his prize immediately and he pulls back with the small tube in his hand.

He lets his body collapse against Sherlock, who groans his name again as their chests and hips and cocks continue to rub, to slide, one against the other. John flips opens the tube, liberally coats his fingers, then reaches between them once more. He rubs his now slick fingers up and down his cock and Sherlock's until both men pant from the maddening pleasure of the contact. Then he reaches lower - and finds Sherlock's entrance. His lubed finger circles, coats, and he at last slips one slicked finger inside.

Sherlock first tenses - then opens - to the sudden intrusion and his eyes squeeze shut. "John!" he shouts.

Dear fucking heaven, it has just been so long. So bloody long. The only semi-coherent thought he has is "More…More." And this: "Don't stop, John. Never stop."

His hips arch upwards into John's clever hand, he tilts his pelvis – and John slips in the second finger.

Sherlock groans aloud. His eyes snap open at the sweet burn and he tilts his dark head downward slightly to stare straight into John's eyes, gone strangely dark and feral in the pale evening light that comes through the open curtains of their window.

"John," he whispers, his voice dark, raw, desperate, "John – Please."

And it's different from the way he said it a few weeks back, different from the prayer that the two words had become then, when his mind skated around the thought, the awful thought, the terrible thought that he would not be able to find John, to find his Army doctor in time - and to bring him home. Then, at times, the exact same two words, became a litany for his soul to latch onto and to catch hold of when he despaired of ever seeing John Watson alive again.

The simple prayer has changed in his mind – It has evolved from a touchstone born of fear and desperation and become a supplication of want and need and a near desperate feeling of immediacy, of **_right now_**. John's name pours from Sherlock's lips and it's a cry of love – of an overwhelming heartache so sweet in its intensity, that Sherlock cannot draw a deep breath; as if he's forgotten how to pull air into his lungs.

He needs this. He wants this. He will do anything to latch onto this and hold it and never, ever let it go.

Sherlock tries to relax his muscles, to allow this longed-for invasion. Allow it and pull the doctor's clever fingers more deeply into him, to surround John's urgent fingers with the inner heat of his aching body.

John stares up at Sherlock's eyes, at the way they squeeze shut in desire, then open and look into his own, at the way Sherlock's pupils are already blown, the light grey-green gone dark, unfathomable. His own dark blue eyes - nearly black now - widen at the sight; he gasps, and works his two slick fingers into the detective, works them in, then spreads them open and Sherlock groans somewhere deep, so deep John feels the rumble of Sherlock's guttural moan as it echoes against his own taut stomach muscles.

"Sweet John…My John…" Sherlock whispers, and John just smiles. His breathe quickens more, if that is possible. He lowers his head against the marble chest, and listens to the frantic beat under his ears. His one hand works both their cocks, strokes along the entire length of them, his bulging with a desperate want, the taller man's rigid, straining - both of them fully engorged. His other has hot, slick fingers buried in his lover's body, buried in Sherlock.

His questing fingers stroke inside of Sherlock, brush up against his prostate, once, twice. Sherlock groans in sheer wanton desperation; he nearly weeps at the sudden pleasure that threatens to drown his senses - and his hips move up into John's eager hand.

John slips in a third finger and Sherlock all but shouts.

"John…God. John…!"

John's emotions, at first a tumbled haze, have narrowed - the first flash of anger gone now, it skims just below the surface, then buries itself deep. He has all but forgotten everything else, except this: the near frantic desire to be _in_ Sherlock - here, now - the need to become a part of Sherlock - to rejoin their bodies - to complete the connection, as quickly as possible.

He is utterly desperate to re-imprint his soul on the other man's body.

He continues to work his fingers inside Sherlock's body, to move, caress, stroke, until he feels his love open to him, then he lowers himself slightly, pulls his aching fingers from inside his lover's body and yanks at one of Sherlock's legs until the other man obligingly lifts it over John's shoulder. Sherlock moves his other long leg back, then John rears up and releases both their cocks. Sherlock groans, bereft, and his hand automatically grasps at his engorged shaft, as John grasps the lean hips, unerringly finds his position and pushes in with one smooth motion. John pauses to let Sherlock's body adjust - it's been so long for both of them. His own body trembles as he struggles to hold his position, for these few seconds.

Sherlock cries out, but it's a cry of pleasure, not of pain, and God he has waited so long and he cannot bear, even now, to wait a moment longer. He lets go of his cock and grabs John's arse with both hands and pulls John as deeply into his body as he can go. He sobs aloud at the overwhelming feeling of fullness, at the sweet burn of the welcome invasion.

John shouts out, buried to the hilt in the man he loves. He stays there, pants for a moment, allows Sherlock to open more, to stretch, then he begins the long slow familiar movement. He pulls out partially, then plunges back in. And all the time Sherlock's body strains upward against his. Begs for more, always more. His strong hands pull John in to him, to become a part of him, an extension of Sherlock.

"John…John…my John…" and now it's much, much more then a prayer….Sherlock doesn't have a fucking clue as to how to verbalize this – this feeling of the need to connect, of the knowledge born in the tightness of his body as it closes around his partner, this _knowing_ that John is _in_ him and _of_ him and of how glorious this long, slow burn feels, or what it means to them both.

His ability to verbalize, to conceptualize has long since dissipated in their frantic lovemaking. He is not certain what he is left with. Just these feelings, this overwhelming _want_ for the man inside him.

He needs John Watson now as he needs the oxygen that he pulls into his aching lungs.

He is dimly aware that his mental processes have shut down. His circuits have blown. He is reduced to feeling – this feeling - of the swift need for completion, of a desperate desire and of an overwhelming love for John Watson so near blinding in its intensity that he wants to weep – or to curse.

John groans as he tries to find the once familiar pace, find it and continue it and let it build until it drowns them both, until they go up in flames together.

He has hurt for so long, been so bloody confused and in so much fucking pain and so very, very alone, that all he can think of, now that he has Sherlock under him, now that he's buried in Sherlock, all he can think is: It's. Not. Enough. It will never, ever be enough. But he does the best he can with it. He pulls out, then plunges back in and Sherlock's wordless cries fill his heart. John squeezes his eyes shut and finally, _Oh God, Finally_ , he finds the rhythm - the sweet aching rhythm he thought he had lost.

They both know it has been too long. That it can't possibly last.

Sherlock's hands are on John's hips. He pulls John into him, pulls him deeper, closer. Sherlock's cock strains between them, quivers, and he pants with pleasure as John's clever hand finds his shaft and begins to stroke even as he supports his weight with his other hand, splayed against the deep carpet, and pounds inside Sherlock, again and again and again.

Their bodies slide together, try to find the rhythm, to move in unison. Sherlock's body feels like one tense muscle straining, straining against the doctor's taut body, which slides against his, in and out, but then he suddenly finds it…finds the beat, re-discovers the pulse, remembers what they had and nearly lost and what they have found again. And he moves his lean hips in time with John's urgent thrusts.

"Come for me, love," John pants, "let me see you."

And it's more of a command, born of need. John needs this; needs to see Sherlock under him, to see how his strange eyes and striking features and his utterly gorgeous body all coalesce into something so beautiful, a sight that he is dimly aware belongs to him and him alone; he needs to feel the strain of muscles under the marble skin, the way that Sherlock does not deny this aching intrusion but instead welcomes it, how his lover arches up to meet him, to share this hot, tight friction, this long, slow build of aching want.

"Sherlock…come for me," he begs in a voice gone raw.

And his lover obeys instantly; his orgasm hits him in one blinding flash. He spurts, hot and wet and aching between their bodies and the intensity of it seems to go on forever. Sherlock's stomach muscles contract as the storm hits and releases. He throws his head back against the deep pile of the carpet and shouts with sheer breathless pleasure.

John grasps his lover's lean hips with both hands, tries to ignore that his body wants to shake from lying too long, inactive, in a hospital bed, to shake with the near total exhaustion of pain and fear and recent captivity, and the, at times, overwhelming desperation born of wondering if and when he will ever come back from the dark hell he has inhabited for so long. But then he sets it all aside and lets the rhythm build and quicken and o _h God - dear fucking_ _heaven - it is just so bloody good_. His love for this man under his body, under his hands, drowns out all thought.

He's back with Sherlock. He's IN Sherlock and as his lover's body tenses and he at last comes between them, John groans and grits his teeth at the hoarse, near animal sound that erupts from Sherlock's lips. He cannot wait a moment longer - John snaps his hips, once, twice, three times, he is buried deep in his lover's body – the orgasm hits him at last, blinding in its white hot intensity – and he cries aloud at the sheer beauty of it. He rides the wave until it collapses and then John falls against Sherlock's pale shuddering body, as the storm of his own release rocks him to his core, with an echo of an emotion so overwhelming that John has no words for it.

He thinks he must pass out, or perhaps his heart already fails him.

Unimportant. He's with Sherlock – and that is all that matters. He will let come - what _will_ come.

He is past worrying about it. As he goes under, he is dimly aware that he cannot control his fate.

Only meet it with whatever courage and determination he has left.

Maybe, just maybe, it will be enough.

OooOooO


	9. Chapter 9

**These lads, in their current incarnation, belong to the BBC, and in their original incarnation, to the estate of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, may his name be blessed!**

**THE BOYS OF BAKER STREET**

**CH. 9**

**WARNING: SUICIDAL THOUGHTS; GRATUITOUS MENTION OF HER MAJESTY'S NICKNAME - AND ONE REALLY LOVELY, STEAMING POT OF RISOTTO - COURTESY OF JOHN WATSON.**

**AUTHOR’S NOTE: This ongoing work is a Trilogy.  This is Book Two.   This work occasionally references events that occurred in Book One:  THERE BUT FOR THE GRACE OF JOHN WATSON. If you have not read that work, you might not "get" some of the references in this story. You might want to stop right here and go read GRACE first, then come back to BOYS.  Otherwise, your reading experience will not have the intensity that I labored so hard to create for you.**

**OooOooO**

" **It is always darkest – just before it gets pitch black."**

**Paul Newman**

**OooOooO**

The most powerful man in the Hemisphere is not sitting in on the latest round of peace talks with the Korean delegation.

The most powerful man in the Hemisphere is not negotiating a cease fire in certain – sections - of the Middle East.

The most powerful man in the Hemisphere is not roundly chastising an errant agent (causing said agent to immediately pray for a very high rooftop - and slippery shoes) – or congratulating same on their latest successful bit of intrigue (congratulations usually taking the form of a carefully raised eyebrow – and an offer of a cuppa with him and Anthea.)

The most powerful man in the Hemisphere is not even – as half of his coworkers in the building close to Whitehall Street suppose - in bed with his decidedly gorgeous, spectacularly female, positively enigmatic assistant.

Nor is he in bed - as the other half supposes - with the rather charming, quietly prepossessing, supremely male sub adjutant to the Korean delegation.

The most powerful man in the Hemisphere is not in bed with anyone – although he wishes he were – to sleep, you understand, just to sleep, of course.

No.

The most powerful man in the Hemisphere is on the phone.

With Mummy.

And things are not going well.

Now while one-half of the people Mycroft Holmes passes on a daily basis in the building close to Whitehall Street believe him to be made of stone (the other half not really giving a damn) – and while every single human being under his command _Know_ him to be made of hardened titanium steel on the outside – and hardened titanium steel, with a semi-solid core of marshmallow mush on the inside, ALL of the people Mycroft Holmes knows, in one fashion or the other, believe that he was cut out of whole cloth.

If they ever give any thought to it, every single one of them just supposes that one day, the Universe looked around, thought, "Hmm, need a bit of 'Holmes' over here" – and Mycroft sprang – full grown and in charge – from some demi goddess's brow.

At least that is how they would put it, if they were ever to think of such things.

Which they don't.

But in the world of shadowy intrigue, of secrets, lies, counter lies and double–double counter lies that Mycroft inhabits, not one single solitary being, (except for Anthea, of course, and his younger brother, the git) - not one single being, good, bad, or ugly, would ever, and I mean EVER, conceive that the most powerful man in the Hemisphere even HAS a Mummy - let alone one that can bring him to his knees.

With one phone call.

Believe it.

Where do you think Mycroft and Sherlock get it from?

Their father?

Come onnnn people.

OooOooO

"Mycroft?"

"Yes, Mummy?"

He leans his head against his hand, tries to shut out his surroundings, as he always does when they talk – to listen to what she is saying, as well as what she isn't saying. There are always things that skim under the surface, subtext if you will, when he talks with their mother.

"Son – Monte Carlo does not disappoint."

"But—"

She chuckles. Honest to God, their mother is the only person he knows who actually chuckles – except for John Watson. No. Strike that. John giggles. He definitely does not chuckle.

"But, I am getting rather – perturbed – son, at being kept away from my own home."

"Yes, Mummy."

"And I might remind you that the west wing is currently undergoing rather extensive renovations and I most definitely need to be there to supervise the workmen. God only knows what they are getting up to."

He rings for Anthea desperately. God, if she would only come in with his afternoon tea, even if it is an hour earlier than usual.

"Actually, Mum, I've halted the renovations – temporarily, of course – as I knew you would wish to be on hand to—"

"Mycroft?"

Anthea pokes her head in. He holds up his empty mug of tea. She nods. Shuts the door quietly.

"Yes, Mother—yes, Mum. I'm here."

"You stopped the renovations."

"Yes Mummy. I knew that it was important to you that –"

"Might I remind you, Mycroft Holmes, that the Annual Gala is to be held in less than three months."

"Yes, Mum, I am well aware of that."

He shuts his eyes. And prays for death.

"And might I also remind you, Mycroft, of the rather extensive charitable contributions that the annual Gala always brings in and that Lillibet will not be pleased if I have to postpone this event due to the renovations not being completed on time?"

"Yes, Mum."

Anthea comes in with an overly large mug of steaming tea. She sets it down in front of him. And removes the empty mug.

He nods in appreciation. And inhales. Aw, Earl Grey today. And steaming hot.

Excellent. She really is priceless.

He reminds himself to issue her an extra month's vacation. Then immediately rescinds the idea. Who will take care of him if she goes on sodding vacation? He frowns at the thought.

"Mycroft –"

"Yes, Mum, I'm still here."

"Good to know it, son. Your attention wandered there for a moment."

"Yes, Mummy."

He raises the mug, takes a sip. Shuts his eyes in appreciation. But something is still missing.

"Therefore, I would suggest – highly suggest – that whatever you are up to, you wrap it up quickly so I may come home and see to those renovations. The sooner, the better."

"Yes, Mum."

"Good. I'm glad you agree. And Mycroft – "

"Yes, Mummy."

"If – when I return home – if I find that your younger brother has managed to once again, re-arrange certain parts of our ancestral home—"

"Sherlock," says Mycroft tiredly.

"I beg your pardon?"

"My younger brother. His name is Sherlock, Mum. You never use his name, do you realize that? He's always "Your younger brother—"

"Don't get smart with me, young man," their mother snaps.

"Yes, Mummy. I mean, No, Mummy."

"If Sherlock has managed to once again, rearrange our—"

"Sherlock is a grown man now Mum. And he hasn't managed to blow up or set fire to a wing of the mansion for years."

"Mycroft, I am beginning to lose patience with you."

"Yes, Mummy. I mean, sorry, Mummy."

Anthea comes back in, walks up to the most powerful man in the Hemisphere, holds a square-cut bottle of whisky, and raises one beautiful eyebrow.

Mycroft's eyes widen. He recognizes the lovely gift the American ambassador left the last time he visited. He now adds telepathy to her list of attributes.

He nods . Yes. God. YES !

"And Mycroft – when it comes to your younger brother—"

She pours a finger of whisky into his tea, begins to turn away with the bottle. He shakes his head, touches her lightly on the wrist. She smiles, tilts the bottle of amber liquid and pours another finger into the mug. Then stands there and looks at him patiently. He stares back at her.

"Yes, Mummy. When it comes to Sherlock, what- exactly?"

Anthea sighs. Leaves the entire bottle on his desk. And goes back out again.

"I said, when it comes to your brother, you might remember that he is a grownup, has been for some time, and that I hope that you both, Mycroft, No. Rescind that. I would expect _you,_ Mycroft, to show better judgment in the future than to commandeer the family home to house him and my future son-in-law from harm. I am certain that other arrangements might have been made."

"Yes, Mummy."

She comes back in. Brings a beautifully cut, crystal whisky glass with her. Sets it in front of him. Lifts the bottle. Pours the whisky glass half full of the amber liquid. She sets the crystal glass on the blotter directly in front of him, alongside the steaming mug of tea. Smiles sympathetically. And leaves, taking the bottle with her.

Mycroft Holmes raises the glass of American whisky, takes a tiny sip. And smiles. it's not his favorite single malt Scotch but it will do in a pinch. All is right with his Universe. Well, not all, far from it, but for the next few minutes…

"Yes, Mummy. I am not certain that we could have made other arrangements, particularly given the immediate and rather nasty nature of the threats – but we did the best we could under the circumstances."

He continues to sip - and to listen.

"Son?"

"Yes, Mummy."

"What 'particularly nasty' threats do you refer to? And if they involve Sherlock or Doctor Watson –"

"John," says Mycroft tiredly. He lifts the glass again and raises one eyebrow at the liquid. Really, good old fashioned Kentucky sipping whisky is – at times – just the thing. The Americans are quite clever at some things. Not that many, but when it comes to the things that count-

"I stand corrected – John, of course. What nasty threats do you refer to? And will you and your organization be able to neutralize them before June?"

Mycroft frowns. "Before June, Mummy? The Gala is usually held in April."

She sighs. Her voice becomes very, very patient with her eldest child.

"Son. I refer, of course, to the pending nuptials of your brother—"

"Sherlock," murmurs Mycroft, now full of false courage.

"To the pending nuptials of Sherlock and of Doctor – of John Watson. Of course, they will be held in the formal garden and of course, they will be held in June. And our entire family and all of our acquaintances will be in attendance and most certainly, Lillibet and the Royals and—"

Mycroft stares at the crystal glass in his hand and at the liquid in it, now appreciatively diminished.

"Mummy?"

"You have become quite adept at interrupting, son."

"Yes, but Mummy – who told you that Sherlock had proposed to John and that John had accepted?"

Deep sigh. Aggrieved parent with difficult child.

"Don't be thick, Mycroft. They have been – together – for quite some time. And Doctor – John - was held captive I believe for over a week, during which time he suffered rather horrid mental, physical and emotional injuries. And Sherlock has been caring for his 'life partner'—ridiculous term, Mycroft, really, you think they could have come up with something better -"

"Yes, Mummy."

"Don't interrupt, son."

"No, Mummy."

"Where was I? Oh yes, after our family's rather – considerable – contributions to St. Anne's and after reading of John's rather extensive and I must say, sickening, injuries, it only stands to reason that Sherlock would have done the right thing – once John was awake and once more cognizant, of course. And that Doctor Watson – John – who appears to be a sensible individual, would have accepted. He was, after all, awarded the Victoria Cross, among other medals for valor. He is used to danger. Hence he is, by default, inured to any psychic or emotional disturbances brought about by being the 'life partner' of Sherlock - really, utterly ridiculous phrase."

Mycroft finishes the whisky and holds the glass to his temple. Good lord, one detective in the family is more than enough.

"Yes, Mummy."

"So Mycroft, what is the nature of these nasty threats – oh, I see that Her Majesty is calling me on the other line. Son – just see that you wrap up your current operation soon. I have a Gala – and a family wedding – to plan. Have I made myself quite clear?"

"Yes, Mummy. Perfectly clear."

"Excellent. It is, as always, good to talk with you, son. Please take care of yourself. Of course, with that rather clever assistant of yours—"

"Yes, Mummy. You take care, too. I'll speak with you soon."

"See that you do. Oh, all right, Jenkins, I realize who is on the other line."

Mummy rings off.

Mycroft stares at his empty glass, frowns. Then buzzes for Anthea.

In a moment, she comes back in – and brings the remainder of the whisky with her.

OooOooO

While Sherlock is still in that marvelous post coital haze, and still very, very comfortable there on the soft carpet of their bedroom, he is aware that John removes himself from the detective's person and goes into the loo. He can hear the taps running. The doctor comes back out with a warm wet cloth and cleans him up. It feels very nice.

Then John murmurs to Sherlock who obediently manages to get his lanky self off the floor and into the oh-so-warm and extremely comfortable bed. John pulls the covers over them both . And Sherlock falls back asleep again, aware that one very warm exArmy doctor sleeps soundly next to him, his dark blonde head on Sherlock's chest and one muscled leg thrown over Sherlock's legs. He sighs contentedly.

They both sleep.

Sometime later, John awakes, stares at his sweetheart in the light that streams from the loo and then begins to kiss, nibble and , er – lick his way up and down Sherlock's pale throat.

Without opening his eyes, Sherlock murmurs, "John, I think –"

"That's the problem with you, Sherlock, you're always thinking," John murmurs.

He continues to lick his way around Sherlock's neck, pauses to lave one ear, then gently blows on it, then nibbles at an earlobe. All the while his patient doctor hands move downward to – other – parts of Sherlock's anatomy. And begins to stroke.

Sherlock opens first one eye and then the other and stares into John's amused dark blue ones.

"John."

"Yes, Sherlock?"

"I don't think I can walk. Let alone—"

"Well, then it's a good thing that I'm not asking you to get out of bed, isn't it?" John murmurs again. He has moved downward along the detective's pale body and is now paying particular attention to a certain consulting detective's, er, singular attribute. With rather spectacular results.

"John, Oh God…"

"Nope. Still just me, Sherlock."

"John, I don't think I can—"

But John convinces him that he can, yes indeed he can, and Sherlock – after a few minutes more of his Army doctor's _attentions_ \- decides that yes, perhaps he can.

So he does.

OooOooO

A long time after that, Sherlock hears the text chime from his mobile. He startles awake and reaches out for John – only to be met with an Army-doctor shape in the bed next to him but no Army doctor. He raises himself on one elbow, glances toward the bathroom. But the door is still partially open and light streams out into the room.

"John?" No answer.

He turns his head to stare at his mobile where it lies on the bedside table next to him. He sighs, reaches out one hand and reads the text. Then reads it again.

**The pleasure of your company is**

**requested in the kitchen.**

**You will want to see this.**

**MO**

Oakton? Maggie Oakton is texting him at, what? Sherlock glances at his watch and raises the other eyebrow.

_At 2 am. It's 2 freaking am_. His doctor is nowhere in sight. And Oakton wants him in the kitchen.

Sherlock tosses the covers off and crosses over to the bathroom to clean up and dress.

What in hell is going on?

And where is John?

He dresses, then hurries down the hall, down multiple sets of stairs, through multiple hallways and pushes through the double doors of the kitchen only to be met with bright lights, lots of warm, very awake bodies, and myriad incredible and delectable smells.

Sherlock's stomach instantly reminds the detective that it has been a long, long time since he has eaten.

He stands. And stares.

Agents Lynn, Enders and Roaman are in the kitchen. Maggie Oakton sits on one of the tall stools. She has a plate of something steaming and utterly delicious-smelling in front of her. She glances up as he comes into the kitchen – and smiles at him delightedly.

"Glad you could join us," she says.

Sherlock stares. Roaman sits at the end of the table nearest to the door and in front of Sherlock. He glances around and acknowledges the detective with a nod, but cannot speak. He, too, has a full plate in front of him. His mouth is full.

Agents Lynn and Enders stand near the stove – where John Watson – currently in his jim jams, the ones with the Watson tartan design, stands. He stirs a huge pot of something made in heaven and looks over at Sherlock. He grins.

"About bloody time you showed up to eat. Take a seat, you silly git." He nods at the long counter behind him.

Maggie grins and pats the stool next to her.

As Sherlock comes into the room, Enders places a plate in front of him, hands him a fork, which Sherlock takes. He sits down and stares at everyone.

"2 am? Really, John?"

John hands another plate piled high with Risotto to Enders, who takes it and finds his seat. Then he fills a plate for Lynn, who take it and crosses over to sit next to Roaman.

Finally, John fills a plate for himself, sits across from Sherlock, picks up his fork and proceeds to do justice to his very "late night dinner."

"Milk? Water?" Lynn asks Sherlock.

He stands to go to the fridge, brings out the milk, including a pitcher of filtered water and places it all in front of the detective. He hands Sherlock an empty glass, then goes back to his seat.

"Dig in, Sherlock. You haven't eaten since breakfast yesterday," mumbles John around a mouthful of rice.

But Sherlock can only sit there for a few minutes, and stare at the absolutely marvelous sight of John Watson eating a full meal at last – and then going back for seconds.

Sherlock grins. He pours himself a glass of cold milk. And digs in.

A few moments later, Galen Dennison wanders in. "Thanks for the text, Mags, I was getting peckish." He glances around at everyone, smiles, then gets himself a plate and helps himself to some of John Watson's risotto.

Beside Sherlock, Maggie continues to eat. She smiles across at John as he eats his first full meal in weeks.

In the middle of their meal, exactly at 2:30 am, four sets of watch alarms go off. John puts down his fork, startled. He looks from Jake Lynn, where he sits perched on a stool at the end of the long counter, then across to Sherlock, then to Maggie and finally at Dennison.

Lynn just looks rather sheepish as he silences his alarm. He glances at John, then ducks his head and lifts a forkful of risotto to his mouth.

Maggie smiles as she pushes the button on her watch. She glances at John, then at Dennison, who just nods back at her. Dennison pushes the button on his watch, and continues to eat unhurriedly.

Sherlock lets his watch continue to beep and stares across at John, expectantly.

John glances at the clock on the back of the stove. He raises one eyebrow.

Enders and Roaman just sit there and eat. And look around the counter at everyone.

Sherlock's watch alarm finally stops beeping.

"John, it's time for your next injection."

"Yes, Sherlock. I can see that." John looks at Dennison, who nods and finishes a mouthful of Risotto.

"We have to get you off a late night injection schedule, John, and move you forward to an early morning one. In the meantime – " He turns and lifts the small case he has brought with him.

John sighs and puts down his fork. He follows Dennison out of the kitchen.

OooOooO

After just two days in the mansion, everyone more or less falls into a daily routine. Mycroft's men take turns shopping and delivering food to the kitchen. They also collect the post and leave it on the round mahogany table in the front hallway. John cooks – a lot. He seems to enjoy it and no one is inclined to dissuade the good doctor.

Afterward, he sits with either Galen Dennison or Maggie Oakton, or boh, in the library. At John's request, the sessions are always recorded for Sherlock. In case the detective wants to listen to them.

But Sherlock has, so far, not made that request.

Probably because, beginning with the second full day in the estate, package deliveries begin to pour into the mansion.

Each time, one or the other of Mycroft's men sign for the boxes or shipping crates, then find the detective in his lab to let him know that yet another delivery of yet another piece of laboratory equipment has been made.

Each time, Sherlock oversees the unpacking of the crates or the boxes or the packages. He directs the agents where to place each piece of equipment. Then he nods and goes back to his notes and his microscope.

John takes a long walk that morning, accompanied by Jake Lynn. He walks all over the estate and he and Lynn quickly develop a companionable silence with each other. John does not open up to his feelings with Mycroft's man. In fact, John seldom talks.

Lynn doesn't mind. He enjoys the exArmy man's company.

And no one has told him, yet, not to follow the good doctor.

It is when they come back from this first full outing, the morning of the second day, the morning after the late night risotto session, that John finds a letter for him and for Sherlock on the round table in the front hall. He leaves the envelope addressed to Sherlock and takes the one addressed to him.

OooOooO

Stephan Yanni sits in the uncomfortable chair, stares at his tormentors and sweats. Really, sweat pours from every orifice, practically, of his body.

One of the men in front of him slides a folded newspaper in front of him, folded to a particular headline.

He glances at it, then reaches out one shaking hand and picks up the newspaper.

His eyes widen. And he begins to sweat even more. He looks up at his tormentors.

"Honest to God, I did what you asked me. I planted the device. I followed her. I pushed the damn button. She was driving the car. I swear it."

One man sighs and crosses his arms.

"You realize, of course, that you have failed and that we have no patience with failure."

Stephan's eyes widen even more. He looks from one man to the other. Swallows.

The second man leans over him and takes the paper back from him.

"Have you seen the other headline, Mr. Yanni? " He flips the paper over, slides it back in front of Stephan.

The perspiring young man reads the second headline – and his eyes widen.

"Dead? Watson is dead?"

"It would appear so. And his companion, Sherlock Holmes, is in rather critical condition in hospital."

Stephan swallows. Nods. What do they want from him? He slowly becomes aware that he might have a chance – just a chance mind you – of getting out of there alive.

"Mr. Yanni, your actions have been a disappointment. However, since they have resulted in the death of a rather valuable member of the Police force and someone who has, in the past, rendered both Doctor Watson and Sherlock Holmes aid, we are prepared to be lenient. "

Stephan nods once. Waits. His breathe comes in throaty gasps.

"Yes, we are prepared to show leniency. Provided, of course, that you agree to pursue a certain course of action."

He swallows. "What – what do you want me to do?"

They tell him.

His eyes widen.

OooOooO

Later that same morning, after John's morning walk and after he finds their post sitting on the entryway table, John comes into their bedroom from his second session with Dennison. He finds Sherlock there ahead of him. He is clearly startled as he understood Sherlock to be down in his laboratory, overseeing the package deliveries.

John looks at Sherlock, then his gaze rests on the three typed pages the detective was obviously reading when John came into the room and interrupted him.

Something about those typed pages is familiar.

Sherlock looks back at John, his eyes wide, the pages held loosely in his long fingers. John can see a portion of the last page as it curls away from the others. The portion clearly not typed but written in someone's handwriting.

His handwriting?

He looks at Sherlock, looks straight into those cool grey eyes.

"John—" Sherlock clears his throat, looks down at the pages in his hand. John can see that the pages have been folded and refolded several times. He looks back up at the detective's face.

" _Busted,"_ thinks John. The man's entire demeanor is nervous. And Sherlock doesn't _do_ nervous.

John walks to him slowly, and holds out his hand. The detective glances again at the three sheets of paper, then places them in John Watson's outstretched hand, along with a rather worn envelope currently encased in a plastic zipped envelope. He looks at John with a searching gaze, then plunges his hands in his pockets and turns to stare out their bedroom window.

"Don't remove the envelope from the plastic bag," he says curtly.

John nods absently, then sits down on the edge of the bed. He, too, has an envelope addressed to him, at their Baker street address, in his hand. He shoves it into his pocket and returns his attention to the letter he has just taken from Sherlock.

He frowns at the sheets of paper that Sherlock has just handed to him. Then glances at the envelope in its plastic housing and his eyes widen. It is addressed to Sherlock Holmes, at the 221B Baker Street address. And the postmark is from several weeks back. He notes there is no return address.

He places the bag on the bed next to him and then begins to read. He reads through the first page, then glances at the remaining two pages. Then he sits there, the three sheets in his hand, and he looks at the carpet.

All the while, Sherlock says nothing. Just stands at the window, his back to John.

John frowns at the detective's stiff back. Then looks down at the pages in his hand. This is his letter. The one he addressed to Mycroft upon the event of his own death and entrusted to his family solicitor to be delivered to Mycroft Holmes only after his Last Will and Testament is read. *

The letter that he hoped no one would ever have occasion to read.

_What the bloody hell?_

Why in Gods' name would anyone send Sherlock a copy of his letter. The thing was left with his family solicitor's, to be held until his death.

John looks up at the detective as he stands there in front of the window, his back turned to John.

The letter is, in fact, all about the detective. John rereads some of his words, glances through the others. Every single word of the damned thing is about Sherlock – and John's involvement with – and feelings for - the detective.

The letter that sets forth his wishes that Mycroft take care of his brother, should John Watson be found dead. The letter that details certain threats that John had received, untraceable threats from someone he could only assume was James Moriarty.

John shakes his head, tries to clear his thoughts. But he feels disoriented, as if the world has tilted slightly on its axis.

"Sherlock?" he says tentatively. "How – where did you get this?"

"It came here today, in the mail, John." The detective's voice is quiet, but the tone is strained.

"But that's not true, Sherlock, it's clearly addressed to you at Baker Street."

John turns the envelope over a second time and glances at the postmark. He stares at the date. Why would Sherlock bother to lie to him when the evidence is in John's hand that he must have received this letter weeks back?

John fingers the pages again. They have been folded and refolded and obviously read several times over.

"Sherlock? Do you want to fucking explain this to me? How you came to have a copy of a letter that I never meant you – or anyone for that matter – to ever read? And how long have you had this in your possession?"

Sherlock's shoulders straighten. He turns to look at John and his stare is frosty.

"John, I told you, it was delivered in today's mail, addressed to me. And that envelope you hold in your hand is a deliberate fabrication. A lie."

Sherlock glances around, takes up his long wool coat which he has thrown down over the French chair by their door, and retrieves a second plastic envelope. He crosses to John as he sits on the edge of their bed and hands it to him.

"Don't remove it from the bag," the detective orders.

John stares at him, then accepts the plastic bag on his outstretched palm. He glances at the front of this second envelope. It is clearly addressed to Sherlock Holmes courtesy of the Holmes family estate.

He turns the bag over. Nothing on the other side. He looks at the front again.

Then looks up. "Sherlock, there's no postmark on this – this envelope. Just the address. It could have come from anywhere. Held anything."

"Noticed that, did you?" The detective's tone is dry. He takes the plastic bag back from John, glances at it, then slides it back into the pocket of his coat. He plunges his hands back into his pockets and goes back to stare out of the window.

His shoulders look resigned, if anything, John thinks.

John looks at the three pages in his hands – and his mind begins to run, like a hamster on a wheel, along an utterly hateful tract. He tries to ignore the suspicions, tries to think things through logically. Tries to _see_ -

_Sherlock – if Sherlock had a copy of this letter …and if this has been in his possession for weeks, as the envelope seems to indicate_... John follows his thoughts through to their conclusion. Would the contents, the words of John's letter act upon him in some way – and what would the detective's reactions be? Would he think, would he feel, that he had, in some way, to make some sort of amends to John? Would he think he _owed_ John? And what form would that take?

He thinks back a few days, back to that afternoon in his hospital room in St. Anne's – yes, _that_ afternoon, when Sherlock Holmes declared his love for him and asked him to be his life partner.

And he – John Watson - was, to all intents and purposes, dying at that time, for all anyone knew.

And dying still, for all anyone knows.

John stares at the letter, then lets the sheets fall through his fingers to the floor.

"Not true," he thinks. "Not possible. He wasn't lying. He couldn't have been."

But his mind supplies the hated response, even as he tells himself not to be an ass.

_This is Sherlock we're talking about. Sherlock. I've stood there and watched him cry at a crime scene – false tears, readily called up._

_I've stood there and listened to him lie through his teeth, over and over and over again. And even I, who knew what he was doing and why, even I was almost convinced._

_And three nights ago – the dog tags? No! No! No one is that good. Not even Sherlock…not even he…_

John reaches up, almost unconsciously, and feels for the single dog tag that hangs around his neck, under his collar. He feels the engraving under his fingertips. He can't think properly. His thoughts are painful, scattered.

As if he knows what John is thinking, that John fingers the dog tag through his shirt collar, Sherlock shudders. But he does not turn around. Instead, he waits.

John looks at the sheets of paper on the floor at his feet – and his vision blurs.

_Not possible. It's just not fucking possible. But is it? If he knows – if he believes this thing is going to happen to me – would he? Could he do this? And what would the purpose be? What use would it be? We could have gone on like we have been. Nothing had to change. We would still have been – together. Or did he cook all of this up just to make the little crippled soldier feel better, to comfort him in his final –_

John's hateful thoughts break off and he drops his hand from the dog tag that hangs around his neck. He can't stop staring at the carpet at his feet and the three damning pages lying there.

_T_ his letter was with his family solicitor. How in bloody hell did it get here?

All of this can be solved with one phone call to his solicitor's office, except for two little things.

He is supposed to be dead. For Mycroft's plan to work, John Watson has to remain dead, for now. If his solicitor even thinks he is alive—

And the other thing? Calling his solicitor to see if he's already released this letter to Mycroft? Even if he wanted to, he hasn't had a mobile phone for weeks. John has no idea what happened to his mobile – he remembers speaking to Sherlock about dinner and then Moriarty challenging him in the outer office at the clinic, a bright muzzle flash - and then nothing.

He's never asked Sherlock if anyone recovered his phone in his office at the clinic. If the answer is no, then presumably Moriarty took it too, along with his watch that was a gift from Sherlock, and his wallet with all of his identification, his driver's license, ATM card, everything. Hell, every single thing that said _John Watson_ was in his wallet and in his mobile phone.

The mobile phone with multiple photos he'd snapped of Sherlock when he didn't think the detective noticed. Sherlock at crime scenes, Sherlock lounging around the flat.

Sherlock, ever and always, Sherlock.

He would have to borrow a phone to even make a call – or use the landline here in the mansion, and it is, presumably, bugged. Or ask Sherlock or Mycroft to get him a replacement – no, forget that. It's not possible to have it activated under the name of John Watson.

Again with the _dead_ John Watson.

The clinic – oh good grief ! Sarah, and everyone he has ever worked with, thinks he is dead. As does Harry - and even Mrs. Hudson.

Then another thought occurs to John and he raises his eyes to stare at Sherlock Holmes as he stands there in the morning light, unspeaking.

Sherlock is supposed to be in Bart's, dying for all intents and purposes. But Sherlock just said the letter, his letter – was delivered in today's post. How is that possible? If the world thinks he is dying in hospital. And there is no postmark, no date, no postage, nothing to indicate anyone had actually posted it.

He frowns and he drops his head to stare at the sheets on the carpet, then at the envelope as it rests in its plastic bag on the bed next to him.

Dear God - is there no end to the manipulations of the Holmes family?

And even this mansion – John looks around at their bedroom. And frowns.

He bends over to pick up the letter again.

Sherlock continues to stare out the window – and to say nothing.

_I typed this on my laptop. Scanned the whole thing in, printed it out as one document. Signed it. Rescanned – and sent it to my solicitor's office. I took the original there myself that afternoon._

When the probable answer comes to him, John raises an eyebrow. And wishes to god he had access to a mobile phone. He is fucking going to kill Mycroft Holmes.

_Wait,_ his tired brain says. _Just wait. Think. If somehow Mycroft got a hold of this, would he give Sherlock that copy? Could Mycroft – that's ridiculous, of course he could._

_Could - and would - intercept any email that John sent out that had both Sherlock's and Mycroft's – and yes, Moriarty's names in it. That must be it. Spiders, right? They're called spiders…the programs that search for certain words, distinct phrasings….And would Mycroft give Sherlock a copy of this?_

_Hell, Yes. And he'd beat a path to our door to do so. But if Sherlock is telling the truth, if he did, in fact, just receive this in today's post, then that means – that means someone knows exactly where they are and exactly how to reach the two of them. It means they're both vulnerable. And everyone around them is, too. Maggie. Galen Dennnison. Jake, Enders and the other agents._

John's brain goes round and round. He keeps coming back to the first envelope, the one that is addressed to Sherlock at Baker Street. The one with the older postmark on it.

God – he's going mad.

John glances at Sherlock again and notes the way his fists are clenched in his pockets. The detective's entire demeanor is one of exhaustion, apprehension.

Why fabricate the first envelope? What purpose does this even serve – and what type of sick individual –

And the answer comes back to him immediately.

_It serves to raise suspicion, to create doubt. It serves to drive a wedge between me and Sherlock._

_And it serves to hurt._

And that means one thing to John: James _Fucking_ Moriarty.

John looks down at the pages in his hand again.

_I have two choices,_ he thinks _. I can bring this up with Sherlock, we can fight about this, here and now, go round and round, and I can call Mycroft and curse him to hell and back. Or I can let this go. Burn the damn thing. Just burn the fucking thing and not play this game. Or let Sherlock have it back to do, what he will do with it. Presumably, there might be fingerprints?_

John Watson sits there and stares at the copy of his letter. He looks up at the detective, who stands a few feet away, his back to John, awaiting John's verdict.

Awaiting John's decision - and judgment.

He thinks back to Sherlock's declaration of love – to their mutual decision to join their hearts and minds and souls. And to how the detective has been there for him, has cared for him, literally, every single second since he was rescued from the Wellington.

He thinks of how tired, how drawn Sherlock has become since he, John, has been in the hospital. And of how much happier, he has been, hell, they both have been, since getting out. He thinks of the simple fact that Sherlock Holmes has actually slept more than one hour at a time since they left St. Anne's.

He thinks of how the detective is – even now – spending most of his time down in that basement lab, trying to find some answer, something, some fucking way to save John Watson's life. To change, or even reverse this thing that has been done to him, to both of them.

John takes a deep breath and comes to a decision.

Whether this came from Moriarty – and now John doubts it – or from the bastards who were responsible for injecting him the tenth time, he will not fall into this trap.

His mind made up, John sighs, mentally and out loud. This letter exists for one purpose and one purpose only, to mess with Sherlock's head. And heart.

He nods at his decision, stands, and carefully folds the letter along its worn lines.

He stares at Sherlock's back. As if the detective knows he has reached a decision ( _well_ of _course, he can see my reflection in the window – he knows I'm standing behind him)_ the tall man turns and looks at John Watson.

And his eyes say it all.

John sees pain, hope, understanding of John's immediate confusion and anger and resignation. All in the way Sherlock holds his shoulders, in the way his hands remain, clenched, in the pockets of his trousers.

_He expects me to be angry about this, to lash out. He expects this to cause me to have doubts, doubts about his intentions, doubts about us._ John mentally winces.

_"Sherlock won't let me destroy this,"_ thinks John, as he stares back into the cool grey eyes.

_"Although god knows, I want to. I want to burn, just burn the hated thing."_

John looks at Sherlock and fingers the dog tag one more time. He shuts his eyes momentarily, ashamed at the feelings of betrayal, however brief they were.

_This is what Moriarty does,_ thinks John. _And this is what the sobs that have threatened them, that have tried to kill Lori Hansen – the ones who did kill Sally Donovan – this is what they do – what all cowards do. They attempt to destroy hope. They lie. They cheat. They take basic truths and twist them around until no one – not even Sherlock, hell not even Mycroft – can recognize them anymore._

" _I believe in Sherlock,"_ he thinks. " _And in what we have together. And I choose not to play this game."_

Not for the first time, John wishes he had his gun back. Any weapon. And someone to shoot.

He crosses the few feet between them and silently hands the letter to Sherlock, who takes it on his outstretched palm. Then he turns to pick up the envelope in its plastic bag and hands that to Sherlock, as well.

Sherlock looks at him searchingly, eyes wide, nods and folds up the letter, places it and the plastic zipped bag in the pocket of his coat, along with the first envelope.

John's head and heart feel lighter. He feels as if he has avoided something horrid, something that would have only served, in the end, to hurt the man he loves.

What of it if Mycroft saw this letter and what of it if he showed Sherlock? There is just no fucking way that any of the things Sherlock Holmes has said or done for John Watson have been a lie.

No. Fucking. Way.

The two men look at each other. John knows the detective awaits his fate at John's hands. John stands in front of him and moves to wrap his arms around the detective's mid-section. He lays his head against the cool silk of the shirt over Sherlock's thin chest.

"Let's not play their stinking games, all right?" he whispers.

He feels the detective nod. He can feel Sherlock's breath catch, under his cheek, where it lays against the cool chest, against his lover's heart. Sherlock's arms reach to encircle John. He lowers his head to John's and presses his face against the blonde locks.

John's eyes close.

OooOooO

Mick hoists, then tosses his duffle into the trunk of the taxi. The driver sighs, gets back into the cab. He drums his fingers on the wheel, waits for the man to get into the back seat.

Mick's text chime rings. He gets into the cab, then nods at the driver and glances at the text he just received. He raises an eyebrow.

He pushes the call button.

"Jim?"

"Aw, Mick. That was quite prompt. I appreciate prompt."

"Yes. And—"

"Well, it appears, Mick, that our dear Doctor Watson has just met with an untimely end. And that Sherlock is rather extensively injured. Never mind how it occurred."

"All right." Mick sits there, watches the passing scenery. And waits.

The weird sing song comes back immediately. "I have, at the moment, no way to ascertain if these events are, in fact, truthful or not. I will rely on you to make that determination."

"You mean that you think Watson might not be—"

"I do not know. Not enough data. That is what I have you for, Mick. Enjoy your flight. And call me the minute you land. I should have more information by that time."

"Yes Jim."

Mick ends the call and drops the phone in his pocket. He frowns at the scenes passing outside the window.

OooOooO

Later that afternoon, John ends his first afternoon session with Maggie, assures her, once again, that Sherlock is to be given full access to each session and goes to their room to think. He glances at his watch. The detective will most probably still be in the laboratory. He wishes he could get him to rest.

In their bedroom, John shuts the door, then bends over to pull off his boots. He sits there, hands clasped in front of him, and stares down at the carpet.

He reaches for the manila file folder that sits on the bedside table next to his side of the bed and once again pulls out the three reports that reside in it. He rereads them for the third time.

If true, as Maggie and Merit, feels them to be, then they spell his death sentence.

If false, as Sherlock claims they are-

He passes a hand through his hair and tosses the folder back onto the table. John leans back onto the bed, attempts to cross his hands in back of his head, stops when the movement makes his ribs ache, and then just lies there and stares at the ceiling.

His thoughts are in turmoil. He tries the coping mechanisms she taught him. He slows down his breathing, attempts to regulate his heartbeat. And to quiet his mind. He is utterly exhausted. And way behind on sleep.

In a few moments, John's eyes close and he naps.

A while later, he is aware, dimly, that Sherlock comes into the room. He hears the door close quietly. But he doesn't open his eyes.

"Sherlock?"

"Hush. Just rest."

He crosses to the bed, picks up the file folder that sits on the table, and takes it over to the window. He pulls out each report, reads each one carefully, then places them back into the folder. He places the folder down onto the table next to the window. Then he just stands there, his hands in the pockets of his trousers and looks out at the late afternoon sky.

John sighs. Opens his eyes and swings his legs off the bed. He stares over at Sherlock, then glances at the file folder now resting on the small table across the room. Then he stands and crosses to pick up the folder, brings it back to his side of the bed and places it back on the table, under the lamp.

He turns back to stare at Sherlock's back. The detective doesn't move.

"So?" says John quietly.

Sherlock's voice is resigned, impatient. "So what, John?"

"That's not how we're going to do this, Sherlock," John says quietly.

Dead silence.

Sherlock does not even pretend to misunderstand.

Instead, he continues to stand at their bedroom window, to stare out at the winter landscape in the late afternoon sun. His hands clench in his pockets.

John watches his partner's back for a minute. Then, "When were you going to say something?" he asks wearily.

Sherlock's head drops and he takes a deep breathe. He squares his shoulders. Finally, he turns to face John, his grey eyes penetrating.

"You've been speaking with Oakton," he says. His voice is raw, accusing.

John stands, unmoving, and all he can do is stare back at Sherlock. He can feel the small tremors that have begun in his left hand. _Please…not now…Jesus, not now…_

"Sherlock – we – I have three reports, all of them from an officially recognized medical –

"I don't care if you've got 300," says Sherlock. "They are all lies, deliberate falsehoods."

He remains at the window as he stares back at John. His fists are still clenched in the pockets of his designer trousers.

Only nine feet of space separate the two men.

It might as well be 90.

John looks into his partner's eyes – grey eyes filled with pain and what John would never, ever refer to as quiet desperation – and his heart breaks for Sherlock.

"Sherlock –" John says.

The detective says nothing . He cannot speak. Of course the reports are lies. Why can't John _see_ this?

"Sherlock, they're lies because you want them so desperately to be—"

"Thank you, John, for deducing my feelings. But you have, as usual, overlooked the obvious."

He finally takes his hands out of his pockets and moves to stand in front of John Watson. He leans slightly forward and fixes John with an icy stare.

John does not move. All he can do is stare back. He is going to punch the detective in the jaw in exactly one minute if he does not listen to reason – or back off and get out of his face.

"I'll use little words here so you can be certain to understand, _Doctor_ Watson. Moriarty fabricated those reports. Every. Bloody. One. And he has made absolutely certain that Merit, Oakton, Dennison, hell everyone, has a copy of them. And perhaps, John, if you can relinquish your determination to be a martyr, for just five fucking minutes, you can _see_ that –"

"Fuck you," John says. He turns to leave, is at the door, in fact, but six feet of pissed off consulting detective is there before him. Even as John has his hand on the doorknob, Sherlock's hand slams into the door – and holds it shut.

"Get the hell out of my way," John says, through clenched teeth.

"No. _John_." Sherlock stands over him and yes, uses his full height as he stares down the doctor. He's aware it's territorial posturing – and he doesn't give a damn. He'll use what he has if he can just get these _facts_ through the smaller man's head.

"You began this discussion. Have the grace to finish it." His voice is cool and comes out in a snide drawl.

He stares at his partner, and even as his anger at John's obvious refusal to put together the _facts_ builds until he chokes on it, he sees the slight tremors begin in the doctor's body, how his left hand shakes, barely, even as John clenches it to his side to hide it.

_Holy Hell, the man is going into an attack. So much for Dennison's injections._

Sherlock frowns. His anger is near overwhelming and he feels as if there is not enough oxygen in the room for the two of them. But he'll be bloody well damned if either of them leave before they have this – thing – between them out.

And if that means he takes a sock in the jaw from one thoroughly pissed off Army doctor, then so be it.

"Sherlock, I said – get the bloody hell out of my way," John removes his hand from the knob and turns to fully face his lover. His dark blue eyes narrow and he feels his right fist clench. He keeps it by his side.

"No. John. And you might want to call Dennison before you have an attack right here on the floor."

"Damn you," John says. "Just – damn you and your smug, self-serving –"

His eyes widen even as Sherlock's narrow and John's body begins to shake uncontrollably. He groans and grits his teeth.

"Christ, not now," he says aloud. "I can't –"

Sherlock frowns and starts to reach out for John's shoulder. John takes a step back and swats his hand away.

"I don't need your fucking help, Sherlock," he snarls. But he does. He does.

John's eyes widen, and he can no longer control the shaking that has taken control of his body. He groans, doubles up, and wraps both arms around his stomach.

"Jesus. Bloody. Fucking. Hell!" he shouts. He lifts his head to stare at the detective, but Sherlock already has his mobile out, shouts into it.

"Dennison – get Dennison in here now and bring an injection – oh bloody hell!"

He drops his phone and catches the smaller man as his legs collapse under him and he falls to the soft carpet. He sinks with John, gently lowers his shaking form to the floor.

John groans, clenches his teeth and shuts his eyes in agony. "Sherlock…I can't - Bloody hell.. I can't - - Something's wrong –" His eyes snap open and he stares, wild eyed, into Sherlock's steady gaze.

The anger has dissipated as quickly as it arose and Sherlock grasps John's shoulders, places one hand behind the tawny head and slowly finishes lowering the doctor to the carpet.

"John – talk to me—"

Where the hell is Dennison? Too late he remembers their door is locked. He groans, stands up and unlocks it quickly, then throws it open. No one is in the hallway. Of course there wouldn't be. He and John have made it quite clear to all of Mycroft's agents that no one is to stand watch outside their bedroom door. Unless asked to do so.

He hurries back to John and raises, then supports the doctor's head with one shaking hand.

John's breath comes in gasps and his eyes do not focus. His voice when it comes, is a choking whisper, "Sher…I can't … breathe… Something's different - …tell Den — something's not right…I can't …"

Without wasting a moment, Sherlock sits quickly on the floor, his back against the small bedside table, his long legs stretched out in front of him. He manhandles John's body into his grasp, pulls him against his chest and quickly maneuvers the doctor so he is holding him by the shoulders, John's back to Sherlock's front. He pulls back slightly on John's shoulders to open the doctor's airway.

His own heart races. His eyes stare at nothing and he talks into the dark blonde hair.

"John – John, talk to me…"

John shakes uncontrollably and he groans – but his voice is weaker now and Sherlock can barely hear him.

He looks up at the quick footsteps.

"I came as quickly – Oh god." Galen Dennison kneels next to the two men, sees the sweat that pours from John's face. His shirt collar is already soaked. Even as he kneels next to John, the doctor's head falls forward, his breath comes out in a deep wheeze – and he loses consciousness.

"John!" Sherlock's hands grasp the too thin shoulders that sag in his hands and he glances down at the dark blonde head, then up at Dennison.

"For gods' sakes, do something!"

"Doctor Watson – John, tell me—"

"He said he can't breathe," Sherlock snaps.

"Okay, keep his shoulders back, keep his airways open," Dennison orders.

Sherlock's eyes narrow but he obeys.

Dennison's phone is in his hand. "Maggie, get up to John's bedroom and bring your inhaler. And hurry."

Dennison opens the slim case he has with him, brings out what looks to Sherlock to be a fat pen, uncaps it, then slams it into John's thigh muscle right through the dark denim of his jeans. He injects the contents of the epipen, then tosses it aside.

He leans over and thumbs one of John's eyebrows. In a few seconds, John begins to struggle in Sherlock's grasp. His breath comes in quick gasps and he begins to breathe more deeply – to Sherlock's immediate relief.

Maggie Oakton comes through the door at that moment, and kneels down next to the three of them. She tosses her purse on the floor behind her, but not before she withdraws what looks like an asthma inhaler. She holds it out to Dennison, who shakes his head.

"We might not need it, just give him a second."

She nods and watches as John struggles back to consciousness. Sherlock continues to hold John by the shoulders – but his eyes search out Dennison's. He frowns.

"Sherlock?" John's voice is strained, too small. But he breathes and that is what is important to Sherlock at the moment.

"Right here, John." John nods slowly, then raises his head to look into Galen Dennison's steady gaze. "What happened?" he says tiredly.

"Okay. Let's get him onto the bed," says Dennison. Maggie and Dennison both rise and help Sherlock lift John onto the bed.

Sherlock covers the doctor with a sheet and blanket, then stands next to him and runs his fingers through his hair.

"Rest, John. I'm right here," he murmurs.

"Okay," says John quietly . He is too tired to open his eyes, too tired to ask any more questions. He sighs and falls into sleep like a ton of bricks.

Maggie, Dennison and Sherlock all look at each other.

OooOooO

John sleeps for an hour. When he wakes, Sherlock is with him, sitting in the chair next to their bed.

John groans and tries to rise. Sherlock helps him sit up. The doctor sits on the edge of the bed for a few moments and both men stare at each other. Finally, Sherlock extends one hand and John takes it in his own. Neither man speaks. John squeezes Sherlock's hand, then nods and goes into the loo to shower.

Sherlock remains seated, listens to the sounds of the shower running and to the little sounds John makes as he brushes his teeth and cleans up.

All the while, the detective's mind goes over John's attack. And he frowns.

He waits for John to dress and they go down to dinner together. For once, John does not cook. One of Mycroft's relief agents – Williams? – has brought takeout for everyone.

Sherlock notes that John eats very little. He and Maggie exchange glances. Dennison just raises one eyebrow.

After dinner, John excuses himself from the kitchen and wanders off alone. Jake Lynn raises one eyebrow at Sherlock - who shakes his head.

Sherlock just sits there – and watches him go. His mind puzzles over John's attack and more than once, either Maggie or Dennison feel his searching gaze on them.

OooOooO

Alone in the library, John crosses to the two sets of windows and pulls back all the drapes. He sets a match to the logs and paper twists already set in the fireplace.

Then he sits down in a chair, takes the envelope from his pocket and looks at the General Medical Council logo in the upper corner. He glances at the return address, Euston Road, London. This envelope is addressed to him at their Baker street address. And collected by one of Mycroft's agents and brought to the manor. He frowns.

John uses the letter opener he finds on the table to slit open the envelope, removes the two sheets inside, and begins to read. He reads the letter all the way through – twice.

One minute later, he lets the letter drop from his fingers to the carpet. He looks at the small fire, which burns merrily in the grate. The room has gone cold and the fire barely makes a dint in it.

John has left both sets of curtains open and the sky outside the window is a deep, deep blue, fading to a dark purple along the horizon. It is going to be a gorgeous evening. John has not switched on any of the reading lamps. The library slowly darkens in the twilight.

John can give it no thought. His mind is numb.

He stares at the fire, which snaps and pops in the quiet room. He sits, unmoving, and ignores the sheets of paper at his feet.

Five minutes later, Sherlock comes through the library door.

The detective pauses in the doorway and his eyes search out and find the doctor where he sits in a chair by the darkening windows.

He looks from John to the fireplace, then back to John.

Sherlock comes into the shadowy room and shuts the tall heavy doors behind him.

He walks over to John, who does not acknowledge his presence. Then he looks down at the letter on the carpet at John's feet. John does not move.

"John?" The doctor just shakes his head slightly but does not answer.

Sherlock frowns, bends over and hesitantly picks up the letter, glances at the doctor as he does so. John still doesn't move. He walks to the next table over and switches on the reading lamp. He reads the letter, both pages, then stands there and stares at the words.

Finally, he places it on the table under the lamp and turns his head to look at his Army doctor. John is still. He has both hands clasped in front of him as he continues to stare into the fireplace. From where he stands, Sherlock can see the faint tremor in John's left hand, the tremor that makes him want to groan.

Sherlock stands there and bears witness as the world comes crashing down around John Watson's quiet form. Finally, he moves to stand in front of John and sinks to his knees in front of the doctor. He bends his dark shaggy head and wraps his arms around John's legs.

"John," Sherlock whispers. "Talk to me."

John can't talk. He experiences the oddest feeling - as if his body is totally disconnected from his brain. He feels as if his body has been shot all over again but it just hasn't fallen down yet. His mind exists in some sort of limbo, a dark hell of some perverted beings' imagination. He thinks he should scream; curse; run around in circles, strike out with his fists. He should get on the phone, anyone's phone and make angry, furious calls.

He should get a match and burn the entire fucking mansion down around everyone's ears.

He does none of these things.

Instead, he sits there, places his hands on Sherlock's head, and begins to stroke his fingers through the soft curls. And stares over Sherlock's dark head into the fireplace.

Sherlock shudders at his touch.

Neither man speaks.

Finally, "Sherlock, that Makarov you've been carrying around in the ankle holster, the one you gave me for my birthday?"

"Yes, John."

Sherlock nods. He holds on to his doctor with tightly grasping fingers.

John's voice is quiet; it has zero inflection. "I want you to lock it up somewhere in this place – and make certain the clip isn't with it. And then I want you to find my Browning, wherever you've got it stashed – and I want you to lock that up, too. And never, ever tell me where it is, okay? Can you do that for me?"

Sherlock nods, his head against John's knees.

"Yes, John."

"Because, Sherlock, if I knew where either of them are, and if I can find Any. Bloody. Way. to get into the safe you lock them in – I'll use one of them on myself unhesitatingly. Is that clear?"

"Yes, John."

John's breath comes quick now, his body begins to shudder and Sherlock can feel it through his fingers and hands. He holds John's legs more tightly as the doctor strokes through his curls. He shuts his eyes.

And slowly, as the twilight deepens into night and as the small fire that John made begins to stutter out, John Watson lowers his head to Sherlock's – and his chest begins to heave. Sherlock rises to a crouch and gathers the smaller body in his arms. And holds on.

The two men stay like that, for a long, long time.

OooOooO

*** There But For The Grace of John Watson, Ch. 3**


	10. Chapter 10

**These characters in their current incarnation belong to the BBC and in their original incarnation, to the estate of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.**

**THE BOYS OF BAKER STREET**

**CH. 10**

**WARNINGS: Angst. Implied thoughts of self-harm. Again with the angst.**

**NOTE: This ongoing work is a Trilogy.  This is Book Two.   This work occasionally references events that occurred in Book One:  THERE BUT FOR THE GRACE OF JOHN WATSON. If you have not read that work, you might not "get" some of the references in this story. You might want to stop right here and go read GRACE first, then come back to BOYS.  Otherwise, your reading experience will not have the intensity that I labored so hard to create for you.**

**A big Thank You to HOS70 for invaluable suggestions re: the type of Scotch Mycroft Holmes would drink - Ch. 9**

**And to seikoxxx and to ongreenergrasses for acting as impromptu betas and for brit picking BOYS for me.**

OooOooO

**Life is hard right up until the moment it isn't.**

**\- Sue Morter**

OooOooO#

Galen Dennison glances at the text on his mobile. He frowns. Why would Mr. Holmes text him when he is basically two hallways away – and could just call him? And it's getting rather late. He checks his watch. Still hours away from John's next injection though.

He stares at the text, then shrugs and gathers his medical kit and extra supplies at Holmes' request and makes his way to John and Sherlock's room.

Agent Jake Lynn stands outside their door. As Galen comes up to Sherlock, Jake rakes his eyes over Galen's slight form, then holds his hand out for Galen's medical kit.

Galen looks from him to Sherlock, then slowly hands the kit over. Jake slips the catch, opens the kit, looks at the supplies inside, then closes the kit and hands it back. He looks at Sherlock and nods once.

Sherlock nods back, then stands aside to allow the psychiatrist access to the room. Sherlock follows Galen into the room, then shuts and locks the door behind them. Jake takes up his position directly outside the door, facing the corridor.

Galen glances around at the sound of the lock. Then he looks around at the sheer immensity of the room and finally at Sherlock's tall figure. "What was all that about?"

"We'll tell you shortly." Sherlock takes the medical kit and crosses over to place it on the side of their large bed. Galen watches him, his eyebrows raised.

"Where's Doctor – John?"

"Shower. He'll be ready in a minute."

"Ready?" Galen glances around again, then walks over to one of the tall windows. He brushes the long curtains aside and glances out at the grounds.

"Pretty night," he comments. He can hear the sound of the taps from their bathroom.

He comes back to Sherlock.

"This is one hell of a big room," he says dryly, "beautiful too. But then, they all are."

Sherlock just nods. He has no time for comments on the spaciousness – or the opulence - of their surroundings.

He picks up the French chair by their door and moves it to where it sits a few feet out from John's side of the bed, next to the bedside table and lamp.

"Doctor Dennison –"

"Galen, please."

"I'd prefer Doctor Dennison, at least until you hear what we have to say." Sherlock indicates with a nod that Galen is to be seated. "Besides," he says dryly. "Once John and I – have our say - you might not want to be on a first-name basis."

Galen raises one eyebrow, sits in the chair. "All right, Mr. Holmes."

He glances at his kit on the side of the bed, then looks up at Sherlock, who stands next to him.

"It's several hours before John's next injection."

"Yes," says Sherlock. He begins to pace the room. Galen watches him with a frown on his face.

Finally, "Mr. Holmes—"

The bathroom door opens and John comes out, toweling his hair. He is dressed in dark boxers and a dark cotton tee. And nothing else. A single dog tag gleams on a box chain around his neck. It shines against the dark cotton of his shirt.

He glances at Sherlock, then looks over to where Galen Dennison sits in the chair.

He tosses the towel on the floor behind him, then looks at Sherlock, who has come to stand directly in front of him.

"Have you -?"

"No, John. I wanted to wait for you."

John nods, then crosses to his worn duffle. He pulls out a pair of black wool socks, then crosses in front of Galen to perch on the side of the bed. He drops the socks onto the bed, then seats himself, clasps his hands in front of him and leans forward, his elbows on his knees. His eyes find Sherlock, who comes over with the chair from their desk and places it next to Galen's at an angle, close to John.

"Thank you, Dr. Dennison, for coming and for not bringing Doctor Oakton with you," says Sherlock.

He ignores the chair he has placed next to their bed, and kneels down in front of the doctor. He takes John's clasped hands in his and looks searchingly into his Army doctor's eyes. John stares steadily back at him.

Confused, Galen Dennison looks from John to Sherlock. He sees the shadows in John Watson's eyes, then directs his gaze toward Sherlock.

"Something's happened." he says quietly. It is not a question.

"You might say that," murmurs the detective. He tightens his grip on John's clasped hands.

"Just show him." John says.

" _No inflection_ ," thinks the addiction psychiatrist. _Whatever has happened has deeply affected John – and has occurred in the past few hours since he last saw John at dinner._

Dennison studies John's grim face for a moment. John does not look at Galen, but sits there and stares into Sherlock's grey eyes.

The tall detective is being extremely – careful – with the doctor. Alarm bells sound in Galen Dennison's head.

Sherlock looks into John's face – and nods once. "All right, John."

He pulls an envelope out of a pocket of his tousers and hands it to Galen. John's eyes follow his movements as Galen takes the letter, rather hesitatingly. He notices John's name on it, then glances at the return address. And raises one eyebrow. He looks at John.

The doctor just nods curtly.

Galen opens the envelope, removes the two sheets of paper and scans them quickly. He frowns. He studies the sheets for a second, then carefully folds them up and replaces them in the envelope.

He hands the letter back to Sherlock who takes it and puts it back in his pocket.

Galen looks at John, who looks back at him.

"John – I don't know what to say. 'Sorry' doesn't even begin to approach it. It's a damned shame."

John nods. He turns his head to stare at Sherlock. Sherlock squeezes his friends' hand, then rises swiftly. He begins to pace the length of the room, as if he will jump out of his skin if he remains still a moment longer.

John watches him stride back and forth without comment. Sherlock stops, glances at John, then smiles grimly.

"It's all right, John," the detective says quietly. "I'm sure Doctor Dennison is going to help us." He glances down at Galen.

"Doctor Dennison, it's imperative that what we tell you does not leave this room, John's life might depend on it. Do you understand?"

Galen's eyes widen. Good lord! He looks from Sherlock to John, then reaches out and encircles John's wrist with his fingers. John does not pull back from him but continues to sit there and stare at Sherlock.

Galen notes the lack of reaction, stares at John Watson's grim face, and comes to an instant decision.

"All right, you have my silence, if it will keep my patient safe," he says. He counts John's pulse, frowns, then gently releases the doctor's wrist.

Sherlock comes back to stand over both men. Galen raises his head to look at Sherlock.

The detective runs a hand through his dark curls. Then he glances down at John.

"Doctor Dennison, I need to ask you one very important question."

While he talks, he continues to watch John. Sherlock keeps his steady gaze on John but directs his questions toward Galen.

"Has anything – anything at all – changed about the injections you are giving John?"

He finally removes his gaze from John and fixes Galen Dennison with a piercing stare. "And I mean anything – the slightest thing might be important."

Galen frowns. It's obvious that something else is at stake here and he is anxious to find out what it is and how it has affected John Watson. In the meantime …

He looks directly at Sherlock. And shakes his head. "No. Nothing."

Sherlock sighs. "No help on that score then." He looks at John's quiet face. John continues to stare up at Sherlock.

Galen glances at John. The doctor's eyes are full of pain – and something the psychiatrist can't identify. It makes him uneasy. John turns his head to look directly at Galen Dennison. Something about that steady gaze makes Galen want to suck in his stomach, already quite flat, and sit up straighter.

He frowns. "Wait. Wait."

He rises, picks up his kit from where Sherlock placed it on their bed, next to John, then sits back down.

He opens the case, then stares at the smaller case inside, lifts it out and sits it on his lap. He flips the catch and stares at the four hypos that reside there.

He frowns again. And then looks at Sherlock.

"Mr. Holmes, these are the four remaining hypos I brought with me containing John's original medication. I prepared them beforehand."

Sherlock comes to stand over him so he can see the hypodermics. "And -" he prompts.

Galen looks up at him. "Well, I was – am – holding these in reserve as we started using the new ones yesterday, rather, early this morning."

Sherlock sits down, clasps his hands in an attitude of prayer under his chin. He fixes Galen with a near crystalline glare. "New?"

John just sits there and looks between the two men. He raises one eyebrow at Sherlock.

Galen nods. "I knew I only had the four remaining and frankly, I didn't want to take the chance we might run into an emergency – and run out. We're – rather – isolated here. So Maggie had a fresh batch sent over by courier. It arrived yesterday afternoon."

Sherlock takes his hands from his chin and glances at John.

"Dr. Dennison, you will have to be quite clear on this. Please explain exactly what you just said. Are you saying that Doctor Oakton —"

Galen just nods. "The formula is not difficult. Maggie transmitted the prescription. And several vials were delivered by courier yesterday afternoon."

Sherlock lowered his hands to his lap.

"Doctor Dennison, you are a medical doctor and a registered addiction psychiatrist. Wouldn't the sole responsibility for John's medications rest with you?"

Galen nods – and sighs. "Yes, Mr. Holmes, it does and should. But Doctor Watson— John has signed consent forms giving both Maggie and I permission to issue his medications, should one or the other of us be unable to, for whatever reason. And I saw no reason that Doctor Oakton couldn't call in the prescription. Actually, I believe she sent it in via text. After I read it over and approved it, of course."

Sherlock glances at John and raises one eyebrow. John looks at him, then shrugs.

Sherlock sighs and thinks for a moment. No one speaks.

Galen says, "I don't see how—are you saying you suspect Maggie of – of harming or attempting to harm John in—"

"No, that is not what we are asking," Sherlock says. "I'm trying to ascertain—" he breaks off and looks at John Watson, who continues to stare steadily back at Sherlock.

Sherlock speaks carefully, all the while not taking his gaze off John. Galen glances back and forth between the two men. He wonders at the detective's obvious total concentration on his partner.

"John, to all intents and purposes, died two nights ago, and his "funeral" is tomorrow afternoon."

Sherlock fixes Galen with a frosty stare. Galen swallows and sits up a little straighter in his chair.

"Doctor Dennison – how did you – or Doctor Oakton – justify ordering medications for a dead man?"

John looks from Sherlock's face to Galen's. He still sits on the edge of the bed, his hands clasped in front of him. He looks Galen Dennison straight in the eye and his glance does not waiver as he waits for Galen's response.

Galen has the oddest feeling that although Sherlock is the one doing the talking, it is John he should be directing his responses toward. He remembers – again – that John Watson was a Captain in the Army. He thinks he is seeing that here tonight. Gone is the quiet Doctor. _Here_ is the soldier.

Galen clears his throat. "We thought of that, Mr. Holmes, and I believe that Maggie – Doctor Oakton – enlisted your brother's help."

"Mycroft?"

Galen nods. "We are, of course, very well aware of Doctor Watson's – John's supposed death. I'm not even going to pretend that I know what is going on. Just that there is some sort of threat and it appears to be directed toward you," he turns his gaze upon John. "And toward Doctor Watson. And that it was necessary to fake his death in order to assure his safety."

Galen looks back at Sherlock. "We – neither one of us would do anything to jeopardize that cover story or to harm John. But we needed the medication."

Sherlock nods. "All right. And you – or rather, Doctor Oakton – chose which pharmacy?"

"Well, we didn't choose, not really. Mags - Doctor Oakton - was more familiar with St. Anne's and I believe she recommended it to your brother's – people. But ultimately, the decision rested with them. We just needed the med. Neither one of us was all that concerned who provided it, as long as the formulary was precisely followed."

He glances at John, then back to the detective.

"But to be honest, Mr. Holmes, I believe the final decision as to which pharmaceutical house to use rested with your brother's people. Maggie just let him know what we needed and in what quantities. The decision was his – or someone who works for him. What name they ordered it under – well, you'd have to check with your brother on that. The actual delivery came in my name. It could be that the entire prescription was ordered under my name. Again, that was left up to your brother."

Sherlock nods. He steeples his fingers under his chin again and stares, unseeing, at nothing.

Neither of the other men speak. John watches him steadily.

Sherlock nods, comes to a decision.

"All right. Doctor Dennison, I'm going to ask you to hand over one of those original vials you brought with you and several of the 'fresh' ones that have been sent over. And – we do not want you to inject John with any of the new medication."

Galen looks from one man to the other. "That leaves me three original vials."

Sherlock sighs and stares directly at the psychiatrist. "Actually, Doctor Dennison, that is what we need to talk with you about. Or rather, one of the things."

He stands abruptly and paces over to the window, then back again, just to stretch his long legs.

When Sherlock, again, stands over John, John tilts his head back to look at the detective.

"Just ask him Sherlock," he says tiredly.

Galen frowns at the exhaustion evident in John's voice. "Ask me what?" he says.

Sherlock sighs and sits down in his chair. He leans forward and clasps John's hands in his.

Without taking his eyes off his partner, he says, "Doctor Dennison – Galen – it is our belief that the medication you injected John with earlier this morning is – contaminated to say the least. That it brought on his attack and the – unusual response to it. Actually, we believe it to have been deliberately tampered with. And we need your help."

Galen's' eyes widen and he stares at Sherlock. "Good lord, - may I ask how – oh – " He looks across at John, who meets his gaze steadily. "John's reaction – your difficulty breathing. I take it you have never had this problem before?"

John shakes his head. "No. But there's more." He ducks his head for a moment and stares at his clasped hands. Then he sighs and looks up at Sherlock.

"Galen, I have had – mild hallucinations – off and on, since I woke up in St. Anne's."

Galen starts at the news and his eyes narrow. "John – you did not report these to me or to Maggie—"

John holds up one hand. "I know. But hear me out please."

Sherlock comes around in front of John and sits in the desk chair. Once again, he steeples his fingers under his chin and keeps his eyes on John as the doctor speaks.

"Galen, I – by hallucinations I mean simply this: sometimes, I see – shadows where there are none. That's it. Nothing else. I have not experienced any vivid waking hallucinations since —" he breaks off suddenly and bites his lip.

John takes a deep breath. "I have not experienced any hallucinations or visual – phenomena – such as I did when I was held captive and being injected with that damned drug. Nothing like that."

He looks up at Galen grimly. "But I have, on occasion, seen what I refer to as 'shadows' for want of a better term, occasionally. Not often. They do not take the form of anything recognizable. Persons. Objects, nothing like that. They are simply – shadows."

John glances at Sherlock, who says nothing, but the detective's eyes reflect a deep sadness – and anger, thinks Galen suddenly. He is aware that the detective is literally vibrating with anger as he sits there next to John Watson. Galen thinks he would not want to be the person responsible for John's imprisonment and mistreatment. He wonders what has happened to that individual or individuals.

He puts his attention back on John.

John keeps speaking. "Each time that Maggie – or anyone – at St. Anne's – injected me with Dr. Merit's original prescription, I have seen these shadows. Every time. And once or twice, I saw – more brilliant visual phenomena. Just colours, auras. And they faded quickly. I barely remember them. As I was always injected just after or while I was experiencing an – attack – these visual – phenomena - would last for a few minutes only."

He looks at Sherlock, then back at Galen. "I – always lose consciousness when I experience an attack. And I barely remember the hallucinations, if you want to call them that."

He looks at Galen steadily. "I did not – experience – the shadows, again for want of a better term, once you arrived and started me on the alternate medication. In fact, for the past two days, I have felt better than I have felt since I woke up in St. Anne's."

John's voice takes on a slightly wry tone. "A little angrier, more readily upset by certain things …" Here John glances at Sherlock, but the detective says nothing.

"As I said, I've felt more like myself since you arrived and took over my medications. Frankly, it gave both of us hope."

He sighs and looks back at his clasped hands. "Until early this morning. After we were through eating, and you gave me the third injection, well, this time, I did not experience the same – emotional response – that I have experienced with the two."

He looks steadily at Galen. "That, coupled with the difficulty breathing leads me – us – to believe that the medication has been tampered with."

John sighs. He does not look up at either man. "And there's – we need your help, Galen."

Sherlock leans forward slightly and takes John's hands in his. John does not pull back but he raises his head to stare at him.

Sherlock's voice is calm when he speaks, and again he does not take is eyes off John. "Doctor Dennison, we have two requests of you. First, for John's own peace of mind – and for mine - we – I need you to knock John out, to render him unconscious for at least 24 hours. "

Sherlock looks at John, then at Galen. "Will you do that for us?"

Galen sucks in a breath. He stares at both men. "That – would not be recommended in John's current condition."

John sighs. He ducks his head and looks at his clasped hands, being held tightly in Sherlock's.

His voice is quiet, resigned, "Galen…believe me, we would not ask if it weren't important."

Dennison stares at the doctor, then at Sherlock. "Does this request have to do with the letter I just read, John?"

John nods tiredly. But he does not speak. There is a moment's silence. "John, 24 hours is a very long time to—"

Sherlock clears his throat and continues to hold John's hands in his, even as he fixes Galen with that same penetrating stare.

"Doctor Dennison, I need to begin running tests immediately on the two medications that John has been subjected to. This is going to take time. Originally, I was going to use that time to run to ground some disturbing medical reports we have received and to do analyses on the drug John was injected with. In fact, I've already begun that a day ago. But now that we know there are two batches of medications - those analyses will have to take precedence. And I need to know that John is safe – and that he cannot harm himself. I cannot ask Enders or Lynn or any of the other agents to take on this responsibility while John is conscious and walking all over this place. Hence our request."

John does not speak. He continues to stare at Sherlock.

Sherlock looks at Galen. "John could actually just - go to sleep – you've read his file – you know he has this ability."

Galen sighs. And nods. He waits for the detective to finish.

"But I cannot be – certain – that I will be able to wake John up, should he just decide to "go away" for a while. And I need him awake and aware, once I have the analysis complete. He and I have a very important investigation to conduct. One that I cannot take on by myself, one that both of us are loathe to entrust to anyone else."

Sherlock squeezes John's hand, then turns to Galen.

"Doctor Dennison, John's current frame of mind is precarious. I'm not going to sit here and lie about that. He and I request that you help us out by sedating him while I take on the important task of analyzing those two formulas."

Sherlock finally lets John's hands go and turns to look at Galen Dennison.

Galen frowns and then nods. "May I ask why this is necessary?"

Sherlock steeples his fingers again and stares past the two men.

"If we are correct, if John is being – targeted – I cannot waste the few valuable resources I have protecting him. And I refuse to lock the man in here and let him be – alone with his thoughts all day. Given John's – sorry John, let's just say it – mental and emotional state at the moment, and I don't blame him at all for it, well if he's unconscious for a while, I can use one of Mycroft's men to guard him. It will allow the rest of us a free rein."

Galen thinks about this for a moment, frowns. "Sorry. I'm still not following you, Mr. Holmes. Are you saying that someone here on this estate – one of us – is—"

John finally speaks up. He directs his comments to Dennison, as if he were briefing him. Again, Galen thinks "Here is the soldier." He sits up straighter and pays attention.

"Galen, both Sherlock and I received letters today – letters that came in the post – but one of them was not postmarked. Which means someone, somehow, slipped it into the regular post – and left it here for us to find."

Galen's eyebrows nearly come together. "But –" He looks between the two men. "But, that would mean that someone here or someone in hiding - who had access to the estate –"

"Exactly," says Sherlock.

Dennison runs a hand through his short graying hair and stares at the carpet for a moment.

"Please tell me – tell me you don't suspect Maggie Oakton –"

Sherlock shakes his head. "Doctor Dennison, I suspect everyone at this moment. But no," here he glances at John, "neither one of us suspect Doctor Oakton of being in on this – not at the moment."

"At the moment?" Dennison stares at John, then turns to look at Sherlock. "Mags—Maggie Oakton is a good friend and trusted colleague. I refuse to accept that she is involved in any of this, and frankly, Mr. Holmes, I refuse to have anything to do with, well, anything that will possibly cast a bad light on –"

Sherlock sighs. Sentiment again. Why can't people just _think?_

_"_ Doctor Dennison, will you help us?"

Galen purses his lips, then glances up at John, at his quiet determined gaze. He sees the lines of pain and yes, the dark smudges under his eyes, the obvious weight loss and near total exhaustion. John has all the physical attributes of the addict, down to the slight shake, the tremor in his hands. He closes his eyes for a second and just thinks.

Then Galen Dennison opens his eyes and stares into John's. "What do you need me to do?"

Sherlock sighs. At last.

"We have a few things to go over – and one request in particular of you. And I have a job to do. But we want you to know what we are up against. Beginning with this: My brother, Mycroft, was exceptionally careful to make certain that John's actual – condition – was kept out of the NHS database. "

He bends over and takes John's hands in his again. John frowns, his eyes unfathomably dark.

Sherlock stares at him for a moment, then at Galen Dennison.

"Doctor Dennison, we need two things from you, including helping us find out how the exact – nature – of John's addiction and subsequent treatment found their way into the NHS database. And subsequently came to the attention of the GMC – who has deregistered John – and stripped him of his status as a registered physician. You know that. You just read the letter."

Sherlock stares back at John and the detective's eyes are full of pain for his friend.

"Someone made quite sure, Doctor Dennison, that John's status as a Medical Doctor was taken away from him and that his license to practice was revoked. And I would very much like to confront that individual."

John looks at Galen, his eyes unfathomable – and says nothing.

Galen Dennison stares from John Watson to Sherlock Holmes and back again.

"Not certain how I can help on that one. But I'll do whatever I can. What's the second request?" he asks.

Sherlock tells him.

Galen raises one eyebrow. And then turns to stare at John Watson.

OooOooO

Greg Lestrade turns over in bed for the umpteenth time, but sleep eludes him. Finally, he sits up, glances at the bedside clock, notes that it is still at least twelve hours before he even has to consider getting ready for John Watson's "funeral" – and an entire day before services will be held for Sally Donovan. The steady ticks come loudly in the quiet room.

In a fit of temper, he picks up the clock and hurls the damn thing across the room. The plastic housing breaks into several pieces when it impacts with the floor.

He sits up in bed, runs a hand through his graying hair, finally swings his legs over and sits on the edge of the mattress. He stares at his bare feet.

"Not fucking possible," he thinks for the hundredth time. "We were just speaking. It is not fucking possible."

His tired mind goes over the events of the past 48 hours – most of them coalescing into a blur of sound and colour that plays out behind his itching eyes.

The drive back to the Yard, following the ambulance which held Sally's body, was a nightmare. Joe Rodriguez had insisted he drive him, but he had Hansen to worry about. Greg told him to get the little nurse out of the cold. Take her home and care for her. But be back at the Yard in the morning. In the end, Cates drove him back. They had not exchanged two words the entire time. Greg figures both of them were in shock at the nightmarish events.

He would be less than an honest man if he did not admit, even if it were just to himself, that he wished that Sally had been the one who had gotten out of the car to stretch her legs – his thoughts break off and he frowns.

Wrong. Okay. Then both of them should have got out of the car. Both of them. There. Problem solved.

Only it wasn't.

He starts to go over the events that followed, the frantic phone calls, the dozens of reports, all coupled with the sickening knowledge that Donovan's body lay on a slab in the morgue until a proper autopsy could be performed – standard rule – all violent deaths. Then releasing her body to her parents. The bloody newspapers. His meeting with his department; his meeting with other departments; the emails, the ruddy paperwork, angry outcries of basically everyone who worked for him, phone call after ruddy phone call after sodding phone call.

Oh, he almost forgot - the "death" of Doctor John H. Watson and the hospitalization of one Sherlock Holmes – all drummed up by Mycroft Holmes in hopes of catching a murder or murderers. And he had instantly agreed to the deception, after the elder Holmes had convinced him that by carrying out the deception, they might also flush out the ruddy bastard or bastards who were responsible for Sally Donovan's death. Jesus – there'll be hell to pay for that one, he knows. It'll be his arse on the line.

His thoughts break off and he stands up, toes into his worn slippers and looks around for his ancient robe. He shuffles into the kitchen, and hopes the sound of the clock breaking has not awakened his daughters.

At the table, he sits and waits for the coffee maker to finish as he pulls his notepad toward him again. He glances at a few items he wrote previously that night – and at the checkmark he placed carefully next to each one.

Contact Sally's family, which consists of her Mum and Dad and one estranged sister. Done.

Go over arrangements for Donovan. Have – _hell, he's losing his mind. He was about to write "Have Donovan send out email to department regarding arrangements." Christ. He's losing it._

He can't use Anderson. He's already got the man working with his team on the device they retrieved from Hansen's car. Anderson was quiet – unnaturally quiet – until Lestrade recognized the same overwhelming cold fury in the man's eyes that he, himself felt.

Anderson had gone back to his wife months back; they were making a go of it. Still, he and Sally had a history and – God, this is just - He'll have to commandeer someone to take Sally – Donovan's place. Jesus H. Fucking Christ!

Frankly, Greg is so angry right now, angry at the world, that he can't see straight.

Sally would be alive if it weren't for this blasted war being waged against Mycroft and his entire bloody "organization." By default, he extends his anger to include one _Sherlock Holmes_.

After thinking a moment, he decides to add John H. Watson, as well, to his list of Those Whom He Now Officially Blames for Sally Donovan's death and be done with it.

And why in bloody hell was Lori Hansen included in this "war?"

He tosses the pen down and holds his head in both hands. Only. Only he has no evidence to confirm that hypothesis. Frankly, he has no idea at all why Hansen's car had a ruddy bomb planted in it. But it has to be related, has to be. He is a former military man. He does not believe in coincidences.

Greg lifts his head and stares at the wall. Mycroft Holmes has asked him to have a drink after Watson's "funeral" and promised to fill him in on whatever his people have discovered. He hopes to have more to go on then. Today, then. Later this afternoon. He narrows his eyes. Holmes better have some answers for him – or he might just bloody his nose for him.

Since his own people have discovered exactly zero – except for retrieving what was left of the device in Hansen's car - Shite, he's tired. He needs to sleep or he won't be any good to anyone.

Greg rubs his eyes and stares around at his surroundings. Sod it. He's lost men before. It's never easy. But this is different. This one hits too close to home for comfort.

And someone – someone is going to pay for this one. His entire department is up in arms about Sally's death. He will not have to go begging for assistance on this detail or argue with anyone over necessary overtime.

The coffee maker sounds its death rattle and he gets up, pours himself a cup and sits back down. He stares at the steam that rises from the cup and then looks back down at his list.

"Daddy?" His youngest is at the kitchen door, yawning and rubbing her eyes.

"Come here, Sweetheart," he says gruffly. She eagerly climbs into his lap and he wraps his robe around her and hugs her to his heart.

"Is something wrong?" she asks. Her sweet voice breaks his heart. She can't stop yawning.

Greg Lestrade pulls his youngest daughter's head toward him, smooths out the tangled baby fine hair.

"No, baby, nothing's wrong. Your old Dad just can't sleep, that's all."

"Oh." She leans against his chest for a moment, then straightens up and smiles at him. "I can fix you."

She scrambles out of his lap before he can stop her, runs out of the room, her little bare feet echoing on the floorboards. She's back in a moment.

She clambers back into Greg's lap and holds out her prize.

"Here. She can sleep with you tonight. Her name's Sally. You know, after your friend."

She holds out the much loved doll. Greg takes it in his hand and stares into the worn blue button eyes.

"Okay, baby. Thanks."

"She'll take good care of you. Only I need her back later. Okay?"

His little girl sleepily yawns, scrubs at her eyes again and leans against his chest. She's fast asleep in under a minute.

Greg sits there in his quiet kitchen, hugs his little girl to his chest - and holds the small raggedy doll in his rough hands. He stares at it for a long time.

OooOooO

"Mr. Holmes – what you are asking –"

"Doctor Dennison, I realize that the course of therapy you and Doctor Oakton have outlined for John takes time – weeks, if not months. But we obviously do not have that time."

Sherlock stands in the middle of the room, his fists clenched in his trouser pockets. He looks from Dennison to John, who sits on the edge of their bed. And who never takes his eyes off Sherlock.

The detective comes to stand next to John, the fabric of his trousers brushes up against John's more or less bare legs. He looks down at his partner, then looks grimly at Dennison.

"The cognitive therapy you and Doctor Oakton have outlined will have to wait. For now. Right now, here, tonight, I need John to be able to remember something. Something that may or may not have occurred during his recent captivity."

Sherlock sits down in the chair and reaches to clasp John's hands in his own. He stares into John's dark eyes.

"I need – we need – for John to be regressed, if that's the term, back to one single day or night, one single event back there in his prison in the Wellington Museum. "

He looks from John to Galen, who sits there, and stares at both men.

"We both need John to remember if anything was ever spoken in his presence about the long-term effects of the drug he was deliberately exposed to. John has no conscious memory of this. And it may not have even occurred."

Sherlock looks meaningfully at Galen. "But if that memory does exist, we ask you here, tonight, to help John recover it."

John lowers his head and stares at his bare feet, at the carpet, anywhere but at Sherlock – or Galen Dennison.

There is a moment's silence. Galen clears his throat. "Mr. Holmes – John – what you are asking me is – this is so irregular I can't even begin to—"

John looks up at Galen. At that glance, Galen caves. The man is clearly at the end of his rope. There is nothing more to be said.

Galen nods. "All right. I'll try. But I absolutely insist that if I feel – at any time – that John's emotional responses call for me to stop, I will bring the regression to a halt. Immediately."

He looks at Sherlock. "Is that clear?"

John looks from Galen to Sherlock. His gaze is dark, quiet, and full of so much pain that Sherlock momentarily can't take a deep breath. He stares back at the man he loves. And nods his acceptance. "That's all we can ask."

Galen stands, stretches, picks up his case from the bed and deposits it on the floor. He considers John for a moment.

"I've read the report that Maggie – Doctor Oakton, obtained from you, Mr. Holmes, as to the basics of John's captivity and imprisonment. But I note that John has not – yet – been in a position to give anyone any report of what occurred back there. I will need to ask you some basic questions, John, in order to make this attempt."

John does not look at Galen. He continues to let his hands rest in Sherlock's strong grip. He stares at the detective as if he is his lifeline, his fulcrum to sanity. _Which he most probably is,_ thinks Galen.

"What do you need to know, Galen?"

Galen tells him.

OooOooO

The two men, both rather tall, one slightly older than the other, sit in opposite overstuffed chairs in the only room of the Diogenes Club that allows speech. Mycroft waits for the attendant to place the crystal glasses full of amber liquid down on the small tables that sit next to each man. Both men nod their thanks and the attendant leaves.

Mycroft and the other man pick up their glasses, admire the amber shade, then each take a swallow. Finally, Mycroft glances at his companion and pulls out a file folder from his briefcase. The worn leather of the chair creaks as he bends forward slightly.

The man opposite him sets his glass down and accepts the file folder. He opens it and extracts the single sheet that lies there. He glances at it, than looks up at Mycroft Holmes.

"I take it this is what you wanted to discuss?" he says dryly.

"If it wouldn't be too much trouble, Reggie," murmurs Mycroft. He sips at his drink and watches the other man.

Reggie shakes his head, replaces the photograph of John Watson's Victoria Cross with its hateful caption in the folder, then hands it back to Mycroft.

Mycroft takes the file and drops it back into his briefcase.

Reggie takes up his glass and briefly salutes the other man.

"Mycroft, I take it the Captain Watson referenced here is the same unfortunate gentleman who —"

Mycroft nods. "I'm afraid so. He is – was – going to be my brother-in-law."

"Bad break, old man." Reggie takes a sip of his single malt, then frowns. "However, I can't speak for the rags out there, even the Times, God help us. This is the type of swill they eat for breakfast."

Mycroft holds his glass up again to admire his favorite Scotch. "Oh, I'm not worried about the 'rags' as you put it, Reggie. They don't matter. After all, they print these horrid concoctions all the time. One day later, it's old news. I just need you to keep an ear out, let me know if you hear anything – along these lines. Any hint that such a 'cabal' exists."

Mycroft pierces the other man with a gaze born of steel. "Or if anyone is recruiting for this – particular – agenda."

Reggie nods. "Quite so."

Both men drink their Scotch in companionable silence.

OooOooO

John pulls on the dark wool socks to help retain his body heat, then lies back, his head on a single pillow. Sherlock pulls both sheets, blanket and duvet over John and more or less tucks him in, like a child.

He brushes his fingers through John's hair, now grown positively shaggy. The detective loves John's hair when it's longer and – less – military in style. He knows that John hates it. He sighs and wonders if he will be any good at giving John a haircut in the next few days. Really, that is the least of their worries.

John stares upward at the ceiling – and is momentarily grateful that it is not painted pale green. Sherlock follows his gaze upward, notes that John stares at the pale cream paint over his head, then looks back down at John. He smiles grimly. "Small favors," he murmurs. *

John nods. He shuts his eyes— and takes a deep breath.

Sherlock takes John's left hand where it lies outside the covers and squeezes it.

Then he sits in the chair that Galen has vacated, as close as possible to John's side. Galen Dennison, notepad and pen in hand, now sits in the second chair, further back from the foot of their bed, nearly in shadow. All lights in the room have been turned off, save the one next to the bed and one small one on the desk several feet behind Galen.

He glances at his notes, and shakes his head. He has no idea if this is going to work or not. He feels he is taking a risk with his patient. On the other hand, John's current mental and emotional state cries out for help. If by helping him pull up this memory, he can also help save his life - Galen is prepared to make the attempt. For John's sake, he hopes it is successful.

He is also aware that it is now only three hours before John's next scheduled injection. He has no idea, given the night's proceedings, if that injection will take place or not.

"Let me know when you are ready, John," Galen murmurs.

John nods. He begins to slow down his breathing, control his heart rate. His left hand seeks – and finds – Sherlock's. He opens his eyes and turns his head to look into the grey eyes.

Sherlock leans over John momentarily.

John whispers, "What if you don't hear what you want to hear – what if we both don't?"

Sherlock brushes his fingers through John's hair. "Then we'll burn that bridge when we come to it," he quips. But he frowns even as he says it.

John looks into his lover's eyes – and frowns. "Sherlock, I don't even know if I can do this—"

"We'll stop at the first sign of trouble, John," Sherlock says. "I won't risk you. But Mycroft's people do not have the answers we need – yet – and this may be the only way right now. "

John nods. "Okay." He squeezes the detective's hand one more time, the turns his head back to stare at the ceiling.

"All right, Galen."

Galen nods. "John, what we are attempting is called imaginal exposure therapy. It has proven very successful in helping PTSD victims, such as yourself, come to grips with stressful situations. However, I have never attempted to do what we are attempting to do here – all in one session tonight. If at any time, you feel it's just too much –"

"I'll let you know, Galen," John says.

Galen nods. He glances toward Sherlock, but the detective only has eyes for his partner who lies in the bed in front of him. Galen sighs.

"All right, John. First, I want you to regulate your breathing, not too slow, just nice and easy. Just nice and steady. When your heart rate is calm, please close your eyes."

Sherlock watches as John's chest rises and falls – and his dark blue eyes close. He has released John's hand but momentarily wants to grab it again – to give John a lifeline, as it were. But he dares not inject any physicality into John's memories. Instead, he watches John's face.

"John, as I understand it, we are trying to pull up one particular memory – therefore, I do not want you to dwell on the more unpleasant aspects of your captivity by this—" he glances at his notes, "by this James Moriarty individual. What I want you to do is to ask the question in your mind, hold on to it, and then I will talk you through certain events that you say you do remember…talk you through them and when your own memories take hold, please just begin speaking." His voice is calm, patient.

John nods. His breathing under control, his eyes shut, he consciously relaxes his fists where they lay alongside his body.

"John, I want you to always remember – this is a therapy session. You are not, at any time, to actually attempt to place yourself back in that situation. We just want you to skim over events, most of the events, and see if you have any memory of a particular conversation that may – or may not – have taken place. Do you understand what I am telling you?"

John nods. Sherlock watches.

"All right. As I understand it, you were shot and taken captive by James Moriarty. John I want you to skip over the details of the shooting. They are unimportant. I want you to fast forward over any memories you have of that event – and of the subsequent operation that removed the bullet from your thigh. I want you to go forward, John, to where you are lying in your bed, in your room, there in the lower levels of the Wellington Museum."

John's breathing becomes slightly erratic. Sherlock leans forward, and using the agreed-to signal, gently taps John on the back of his left hand.

John sighs, and his breath rate slows down somewhat.

"John, you have now become aware that you have been taken captive – and that you are under the influence of pain medication. You realize you are a prisoner, but the meds have you heavily sedated – and you cannot give any thought to your captivity at that moment. You are alone in the room at this point."

John's breathing picks up slightly. Sherlock taps him on the back of his hand.

"John, I want you to move forward, the same way you would fast forward through a movie, to the first time that you become aware that there are other people in the room with you. Can you do that for me?"

John frowns. "Yes," his voice is quiet, but tense. His breathing rate is still slightly elevated, and Sherlock notes his right hand is clenched in the duvet cover.

"John, we will examine all the aspects of your captivity at a later time, when you are ready. Tonight, all I ask you to do is this: please continue to skim over the events of your captivity, I realize you had no idea whether it was day or night, so time is unimportant to us. I want you to mentally go over those events – and try to remember two things."

John nods. A faint sheen of sweat covers his brow and Sherlock frowns. He wants to wipe John's face but he cannot touch John. Yet.

Galen Dennison's voice is calm, reassuring. "John, I understand that at various times, you recall the presence of a young female nurse. At that time, you did not know her name. We now know her name was – is Lori Hansen. Do you remember Ms. Hansen?"

John nods. "Yes." He does not open his eyes. His right hand relaxes somewhat by his side.

"John, I understand that there was an individual, a man, by the name of Sebastian Moran, who was occasionally present in your room. Do you remember Mr. Moran?"

John's breathing quickens. And both his fists clench. Sherlock frowns. He taps gently on John's left hand. John shudders. "I – yes," he answers.

"John, you are doing very well. Here is the first question: At any time during your captivity, when you were conscious or unconscious, do you recall the presence of an individual in your room by the name of Doctor Marcus Franks?"

John's brow furrows. His breathing escalates and once again, Sherlock taps his hand. John's left hand clenches, then relaxes. Sherlock watches as his partner's head turns and as he frowns.

"I don't – Franks? His name is Franks?"

Galen says quietly. "Yes, John. There is a doctor named Marcus Franks. He oversees the injections that Ms. Hansen administers. Doctor Marcus Franks. You may have never seen Doctor Franks with your eyes. You may have only been aware of his presence while you were unconscious—"

"Moran," murmurs John. Sherlock's eyes narrow.

"John?" Galen looks up from his notes.

"Moran. His Sig – he has a gun trained on Lori. At the back of her head. He's going to shoot her," John's voice is matter of fact. But his breath rate has increased again.

"John, I want you to skip over that memory. What we need to know is this: at any time, did you hear Doctor Franks – or anyone for that matter – mention the long term effects of the drug you –"

"He's going to blow her fucking brains out," murmurs John. Sherlock's eyes widen. John is no long just lying in the bed in front of him, eyes closed, being talked through memories. He has gone under.

He looks up at Galen to see if the psychiatrist has noticed.

"All right, John. I understand that is a strong memory for you. Now I want you to fast forward, go past that memory. Find the memory where Doctor Franks – or Moran – or James Moriarty - may have mentioned the long-term effects of the drug you were subjected to. Can you do that for me?"

John nods, the movement slight. He frowns. Sweat pools up alongside his hairline and begins to drip downward along the side of his face. Sherlock's hands clench.

"I want to die. I am going to jump Moran. Force him to shoot me. Anything, anything is preferable to another injection. I want to take a bullet … if it means the pain and heat will stop … Moran - He has his Sig trained on Lori's head."

Sherlock leans over his partner. Rules be damned. He wipes John's face with a cloth. John doesn't even notice. Sherlock glances at Galen. Waits for the psychiatrist to stop the session.

"John. I want you to skip over that memory. If you cannot do so, I will have to bring this session to a halt."

Galen frowns toward his patient, there in the darkened room.

"I – I have no choice. I have to do it," John murmurs. "I have to let them - to save her life, I have to –"

Galen sighs. Okay. Just let John go with this memory as long as he does not become more agitated. It is obviously extremely important to him.

"Do what, John?" he asks quietly.

Sherlock's eyes narrow.

John's head begins to turn on the pillow. A fine sheen of sweat covers his face.

"I have to do it," he whispers again. Galen can barely hear him. Sherlock frowns.

"You have to do what, John?" Galen asks.

John does not answer. Instead, he raises his left arm, turns it over to expose his elbow and wrist, and holds it out, as if waiting for an injection.

Sherlock's blood runs cold.

OooOooO

"John, you have skimmed over most of the memories from your captivity and I am going to ask you this question one last time. At any time, do you consciously remember Doctor Franks – or anyone for that matter – mentioning the long term effects of the drug you were exposed to?"

John frowns, his eyes closed. His hands clench and then release in the bedclothes. Sherlock leans forward. He is about to call a halt to this himself if John cannot remember. No amount of knowledge, of data, is worth what he and Galen are putting John through.

John frowns. Then nods. "Yes, I remember."

Galen sighs and sits back in his chair. "All right, John. Can you remember the exact words that were said? Can you remember who said them?"

John's head turns on the pillow. His breathing accelerates again. Sherlock leans forward to tap him on the back of his left hand. John's breathing calms down somewhat. Sherlock realizes he, himself, is holding his breath.

John's voice is quiet as he recalls the memory. Zero inflection, Galen notes.

"I remember Franks, speaking to Lori Hansen."

"What did he say, John?" asks Galen. Sherlock's eyes narrow as he watches John.

John frowns. "He said…'Go ahead and change the bandage…give him the injection and report back to me in the clinic …" **

John's voice fades out, he whispers so low, that neither man can make out the next few words.

"John? John? Can you recall what was specifically said about the drug? And can you speak more clearly?"

Galen's quiet voice rouses John. He clenches his hands in the bedclothes again. His breath catches.

John's voice, when it comes, rings out in the darkened room.

"Franks said - Franks told Lori … 'Not that anything is going to help the poor sod. Die now - or die later. He's a dead man, either way."

Sherlock's hand reaches out to grab and hold onto John's left hand as it fists in the bed covers.

OooOooO

* THERE BUT FOR THE GRACE OF JOHN WATSON, John's "prison" room had pale green walls and ceilings - and it's what he always saw first, each time he came out from under Moriarty's addictive drug.

** THERE BUT FOR THE GRACE OF JOHN WATSON, Ch. 19


	11. Chapter 11

**These characters in their current incarnation belong to the BBC and in their original incarnation, to the estate of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.**

**THE BOYS OF BAKER STREET**

**CH. 11**

**NOTE: This ongoing work is a Trilogy.  This is Book Two.   This work occasionally references events that occurred in Book One:  THERE BUT FOR THE GRACE OF JOHN WATSON. If you have not read that work, you might not "get" some of the references in this story. You might want to stop right here and go read GRACE first, then come back to BOYS.  Otherwise, your reading experience will not have the intensity that I labored so hard to create for you.**

**WARNINGS: Language & Violence. **

**And one really lovely scene where Sherlock considers blowing someone's head off – but that's not a warning. That's just freakin' necessary.**

OooOooO

**I never did give them hell. I just told the truth, and they thought it was hell.**

**\- Harry S Truman**

OooOooO

John opens his eyes tiredly, stares at the ceiling for a moment, then turns his head to look into Sherlock's grey eyes.

Neither man speaks.

Galen Dennison stands and puts his notes down and walks over to the two men. He bends down, takes John's pulse, then looks at his patient carefully. John's pulse is rapid but not as bad as he fears.

"All right there?" he asks quietly.

John nods. He struggles to rise. Dennison steps back and lets Sherlock help John sit up on the side of the bed.

Galen sighs and retrieves his med kit, then goes back to his notes. In order to give John a few moments to compose himself, he walks over to the window and looks out at the dark night sky. He can hear the two men murmuring to each other. After a minute or two, he turns and picks up his chair, then carries it over to put it down next to John and Sherlock.

Sherlock leans forward to stare at John, his hands clasped in his lap.

John looks back at him, his eyes tired and expression haggard. His skin is flushed, Galen notes, as if he is worsening for a fever.

Galen clears his throat. "Well, I don't know if that was helpful or not. And frankly, I don't much care for putting John through that process, not all at one time."

He looks from Sherlock to John. "John, your next injection is due in less than two hours." He consults his watch. "If you still plan on going through with –"

"No." John straightens up, and stares back at Sherlock. "No, Sherlock. Galen's correct. 24 hours is a long time to – "

"John, we discussed this." Sherlock reaches to take John's hand but John pulls back slightly and then stands up. The detective leans back slightly to look his partner in the eyes. "John."

"Sherlock, I – oh, shite -" John hurriedly crosses between the two men to the loo and slams the door. A second later, they both hear the unmistakable sounds of a man being enthusiastically sick.

Sherlock groans slightly and then stares at Galen.

"Unfortunately, that 'memory' of John's can mean more than one thing."

Galen nods at him. "I have no idea – well, not much of one – of what that man went through during those six or seven days – but revisiting them so soon was not a very good idea. I hope you got something out of it you can use."

Sherlock shakes his head tiredly. "Not really. Oh, hell, I don't know." He stands abruptly, crosses to the bathroom, hesitates, then goes to stand at the window, his fists clenched in his pockets.

Three minutes later, John comes out of the loo, dressed in his flannel drawstrings and the dark tee shirt and socks. He stands there, looks from Sherlock's tall figure at the window over to Galen's.

He sighs and crosses to the bed and sits down in the chair that Sherlock has just vacated.

Galen sits and waits for him to speak. He glances at his watch again.

John clasps his hands, leans forward and looks Galen Dennison in the eyes.

"Galen – I – need to sleep. I'm nearly at the end of my rope. I just –" here John scrubs at his eyes. He's aware that Sherlock has come to stand quietly behind him. Sod the deep pile carpet anyway. The man moves like a cat.

John swallows. "Let's – table the 24 hours thing. Just – " he looks down at the floor then back up to the psychiatrist. "Can you just give me something, anything, to knock me out for a few hours. Just so I can sleep? I don't really want to lose that much time sleeping – to lose those many hours."

Sherlock's long fingers come to rest on John's shoulders. "John –"

John shakes his head, so tired he can barely keep his eyes open much longer. "No, Sherlock. I'm sorry. I know we agreed and you have my word of honor, nothing's going to happen. Get Jake to stay with me while you're in the lab. And both of us need to sleep right now."

John reaches up with his right hand and places it over Sherlock's long fingers on his left shoulder. Sherlock comes round and kneels next to John's chair. He brushes the fringe out of John's eyes and looks into his partner's dark blue eyes.

"John – whatever you need, okay? But I cannot be distracted from this analysis. And I can't depend on Mycroft getting an analysis to me soon enough to do us any good. We have as good a chance with my doing it as with anyone. You'll have to be under constant guard. But, shite, John, whatever you need."

John nods at him and tries to smile. But it doesn't reach his eyes. "Okay. We sleep tonight, if Galen will help, and you get started on that analysis first thing in the morning."

Sherlock sighs and stands. He stares down at his Army doctor and smiles grimly. "Actually, if Galen will help us out right now, I'll get started immediately. We can't afford to waste time here."

Sherlock looks at Galen Dennison. "Can you give him something to put him under? Something that I can trust he'll be okay with – I have a man at the door. I just need time. Can you give us that?"

Galen looks from one man to the other. "Yes, I think so."

He stands to retrieve his medical kit. Then turns to pierce Sherlock with a gaze.

"Mr. Holmes, I need to know what to tell Maggie. She's part of this team. There's going to be hell to pay between her and I in the morning anyway when she finds out about this little impromptu session." He waves his hand at the bed and at John.

Sherlock sighs, glances down at John.

John looks up at him, and shrugs.

Sherlock looks at Galen. "Doctor Dennison – Galen – the less who know about this, for now, the better. I hate that we've put you in this position, and frankly, I've 'known' you for far less a time than I've known Doctor Oakton. But you are responsible for administering John's medications and thus, we called you in rather than Doctor Oakton. Until we know for sure who we can trust," he glances down at John, "and who we can't, I'm asking you not to mention this session."

Galen frowns. "I have to tell her something. She has a session scheduled with John midmorning." He glances at John and frowns. "Well, what do I tell her?"

Sherlock thinks. "Tell her the truth. Tell her that John had a bad night, that we called you in since you are the responsible party for giving him his meds and we discussed the situation. Tell her after assessing John's – emotional condition – you felt it was for the best that he get some sleep. If that's all right with John?"

Both men glance at the doctor, who meets their gaze through weary eyes.

"Anything works," John says. "It should be fine."

Sherlock begins to pace across the room again as he talks. "Oh, bloody hell, tell her anything you want. With John's permission, tell her about the letter from the GMC. Just let's get this man some help now, all right?"

Galen considers, then nods. "All right." He opens his kit and glances at John.

"John, if I give you this sedative, I cannot also administer your usual injection. And there's no guarantee that you won't experience an attack in your sleep. You'll have to have constant monitoring." He looks across at Sherlock. "How long are you going to stay with him tonight?"

John looks up at Sherlock and frowns. Sherlock looks back at John, his fists clenched in the pockets of his trousers. He smiles grimly. "I'll stay for four hours. After that, I'll call in one of the agents to sit by his side and watch him. Hell, there's no reason we can't use two agents. Although, if he goes into an attack—"

Galen thinks this over. "No. Let's do this. I'll give John the sedative now, or rather, a few minutes from now. Once he's asleep, I'll sit with him for the first watch. I can use the time to familiarize myself with his file – his medical records. If one of your men can then come and spell me, and let me get some rest, that'll give you time to get to your lab and get to work immediately, tonight."

He looks steadily at John. "In the meantime, if he has any sort of attack in his sleep – and it's more likely that will happen in the first few hours – I'll be on hand."

Galen looks back at Sherlock.

"We'll give your man at the door the opportunity to get some much needed sleep. And he or one of them can spell me in the morning, at least until John comes out of it. He'll have to be watched then, of course."

John and Sherlock look at each other – and John nods tiredly.

Sherlock tells Galen, "All right. But let me talk to Lynn first. I still want someone at this door every minute John is here."

He crosses to the door and opens it. Jake Lynn turns to him and raises one eyebrow.

OooOooO

Galen goes to his room for a few minutes to give the two men the opportunity to talk. He tells Sherlock he'll be back in less than ten minutes to give John the sedative. The detective nods. He shuts the door – shuts out Galen Dennison and Jake Lynn and turns to John.

He and John stare at each other.

Sherlock looks at his partner, then begins to pace again, back and forth.

"You're wearing a hole in the carpet," John murmurs. Sherlock stops, shudders, then comes over to sit in Galen's chair. He leans toward John.

"John, listen. I'm not going to get in some sort of domestic over this. We both know what you said. And we both know that those words could have meant more than—"

"Sherlock –" John's voice is tired to the extreme. Sherlock wonders how the man is still conscious, let alone able to function.

He shakes his head. "No, John, just listen to me. We are diametrically opposed here. Besides, I need to tell you something and tell you quickly before Dennison comes back."

John just nods tiredly. Christ, will this day never end? He stares at his partner through blurry eyes. He is aware that his left hand shakes slightly, but no tremors yet. Thank God for small favors. He cannot remember being this tired, unless it was those first few days in St. Anne's, when it was all he could do to sit up and nod at everyone, let alone actually function and carry on a conversation. He's having trouble taking a deep breath but chalks it up to sheer exhaustion – and the overwhelming emotions the session has called up.

Sherlock looks at his clasped hands and takes a breath. Then he looks back at John.

"John, while you were being held captive, I received three – recordings - from Moriarty."

John interrupts quietly. "Let me guess. They were all of me in that prison – that room."

Sherlock nods, stares at him. "You knew this?"

John shakes his head. God, his head aches. It's been bothering him all day, and it's just getting worse. He should have asked Galen for something for it. He shuts his eyes, then opens them to stare into Sherlock's steady gaze. "No. But I thought about it, once or twice. I remember thinking it made sense. There were the cameras – they had to be there for a reason." He sighs and clasps his hands in his lap and stares down at them for a moment.

Then he looks back at Sherlock. "It just made no damned sense at all that Moriarty let me live. That I was even alive. Once the injections started, I figured – it had to be something like that. I wasn't – clear in my head – most of the time and never really thought about it. It was only toward the end there that things began to make a little sense. I know now it's because Lori didn't follow through with that last injection. I was able to think a few things through. And it just made sense that he would have sent you something - something to mess with your head."

John's voice catches and he takes a deep shuddering breath. "Sherlock, I don't want to fight about this. Bloody hell!" He looks at his partner. "I want you to be right about this, of course I do. It's just that – I'm a doctor, Sherlock, even though at the moment, I'm – Not. But I'm a trained medical professional. I've read those damned reports –" he holds a hand up as Sherlock's eyes narrow and he begins to say something.

"No, just wait a second. Nearly done here." John stares at Sherlock and he's overcome with a wave of total exhaustion. His hands shake slightly. The detective moves to cover his Army doctor's hands with his own. He remains silent.

"Sherlock – I don't know what those words of Franks – "Franks," right? What those words mean. I realize they could mean any number of things. But from my perspective –" John takes a deep breath. God, he is going to fall over in a moment if he doesn't get some sleep and if his head doesn't stop hurting.

He looks sadly at the detective and squeezes his hands. "Let's just take it one day at a time, all right? You go do what you – Do. And I'll get some rest. I promise you –" He looks into Sherlock's steady gaze, filled with so much pain on his behalf that John can't comprehend it all at once. He swallows.

"I promise you, love - you have my word of honor – I won't…try anything. Just let me get some sleep. Give me these hours. I'll be better able to function in the morning. Hell," here he gives Sherlock a tired little grin. "I'll even eat. I promise that, too. But give me these hours to rest – to process what's happened. I can't even begin to think right now. I am thinking of Harry, of Mrs. Hudson, of all those people who believe me to be dead. I don't know how in hell Mycroft plans to pull this off. And at the moment, I don't care."

He stares at Sherlock through a bright haze of mental exhaustion. Who says nothing. For a brief moment, John wants to ask Sherlock what became of this Doctor Franks – this anonymous voice he barely remembers. But he lets it go for now.

"Get Jake – Agent Lynn, Enders, Roaman, whoever, to spell each other, if that will make you feel better. Frankly, I don't want to be alone right now either."

John looks at their hands, clasped together. "Just give me a little time. I – I don't want to lose 24 hours. I don't know what's happening to me, Sherlock. I can't seem to, oh hell, I'm just so blasted tired. And I hate this for you, more than anything. And bloody hell, but my head pounds right now."

John leans forward and the two men rest their foreheads together. John shuts his eyes. His hands shake slightly in Sherlock's steady grasp.

"Go do your analysis. As soon as Galen gets back and puts me under, go be Sherlock. And when you get back," he raises his head and stares into Sherlock's eyes, "when you get back, I'll still be here. And we'll give that damned bastard Moriarty a run for his money. I lay even odds that he's the one who sent my records to the GMC."

Sherlock sighs and nods once. "Okay, John, but let me tell you this." He lets John's hands go and sits back.

"You were right. The – disks – I received were recordings of your – torture – recordings of the injections and the effect they had on you. Some of it anyway. Each of them were less than ten minutes in length. In the first one," he stares at John to see how he reacts to this information but John just looks steadily back at him. Good. So far, so good. "In the first one, he vows to break you and send you back to me."

Sherlock swallows, but John's gaze remains steady. "In the last one, he vows to kill you – intimates that you will be long dead before I can hunt the bastard down and find you - find you and bring you home. Those threats are on the disk, John. There for anyone to see – and hear."

John frowns at the news. And he gazes into his partner's eyes with sadness. "Sherlock, what you must have gone through—"

Sherlock shakes his head and raises a hand, flicks his long fingers through John's hair. "Listen, idiot. What he – Franks - said there, what you remembered, just harkens back to what Moriarty promised. To send you home to me – dead. That's all that meant. And there is nothing in those words, John – nothing – that convinces me otherwise."

John starts to say something but Sherlock is having none of it. He hears Galen Dennison's quiet knock on their door. He stands up quickly, then looks back down at John who has tilted his head back to stare at Sherlock.

"John – just mull that over in your 'trained medical professional' mind. That's all I'm asking. Just know that I wouldn't lie to you about this. And I am telling you outright, those lab reports are all lies. Deliberate bloody lies. And when this immediate crisis is over, I will find that snake, personally hunt him down, and cut him into a hundred pieces. And burn what's left."

Sherlock goes to open their door to Dennison.

John stares after him. Then lowers his head to his hands.

OooOooO

Stephan Yanni finishes his first full shift at Bart's, puts aside the mop and bucket, and bottles of spray disinfectant and cleaning supplies. He completes the small chart they gave him. He runs a shaking hand through his brilliant blonde hair. And glances around. So far, so good. First day on the job at Bart's and already it's going just as they planned. He actually was allowed in to clean the hospital room that Holmes was moved to – after being deemed fit enough to leave the intensive care ward. Really, he was within a few sodding feet of the man.

He had moved the fiber mop back and forth across the floor, emptied the bins, sprayed and wiped down the surfaces in the small loo. And as he worked under the approving glance of his supervisor, he kept stealing little looks at the quiet figure in the bed, at the dark curls, nearly hidden under the swath of white bandages.

" _It's going to be easy_ , quick and easy" he thinks. Next shift. Yes, next shift and it'll be done.

And he will be through with this nightmare and he can get back to his life. _One more night_ , he thinks.

Then Life steps in and takes a hand.

Stephan is just putting away the last of the unused cleaning rags – after tossing the dirty ones in the laundry bin – when his shift supervisor comes in to the small room to find him.

"Hey, mate, want to earn some extra cash your first paycheck?" Stephan turns to look at the older man. Then he nods slowly.

"Sure," he says. "How?"

"Easy. Jenkins has called off and you can fill in for him. Same rounds; same rooms, but two floors instead of just this one. Think you can handle it by yourself?"

Stephan's eyes widen. Then he straightens and smiles. "Yes. That will be just fine."

The man nods. "Good man. I appreciate it. Go ahead and take your break. Cafeteria's open still. And report back here when you're done."

Stephan nods. All right, then.

OooOooO

Sherlock stands back as Galen Dennison gives John the sedative by injection. John nods at Galen, then glances toward Sherlock.

John sighs and lies down and Sherlock moves in to cover John again, to make sure he is warm and comfortable. The two men stare at each other for a moment.

Galen goes back to the desk in the far corner of the room, sets down his medical case and his briefcase, pulls out John's medical files and sets them to the side. He seats himself and begins to make out a report that he also pulls from the case. He checks his watch, then records the time of John's injection. Finally, he sets it all aside and sits there and waits as the two men talk quietly to each other.

Sherlock brushes his long fingers through John's hair and smiles at his Army doctor.

"Get some sleep. I'll be –"

"I know where you'll be," John says quietly. He squeezes the detective's hand, then releases it and shuts his eyes briefly. He opens them again as he feels Sherlock bend over and brush his forehead with his lips. Usually his lover shows more – reticence – toward public demonstrations of affection, although back there in St. Anne's, since the Wellington, it seems to John that all of Sherlock's normal behavior where John is concerned has gone out the window. He smiles briefly at the feel of Sherlock's lips against his hairline. Then his thoughts break off as the sedative begins to take effect.

_He wants to ask Sherlock something – something about that bloody doctor – Franks?_ He wishes he could remember what it was.

John's vision blurs slightly and he looks at the concerned gray gaze one last time, then nods and shuts his eyes.

"Okay, later," he murmurs.

"Later, John."

Sherlock waits until he is certain that John is asleep, then he straightens up and nods once at Galen. He stands back and watches carefully as Galen wraps a rubber tubing around John's arm, tightens it, and withdraws the blood samples Sherlock requires for his research. He fills three small vials, wipes the injection sight, affixes a small bandage, and hands the vials to the detective. Sherlock nods, holds them up, then takes the three labels that Galen hands him, along with a pen, and meticulously labels each vial.

He then picks up his jacket and opens the door. Agent Enders now stands guard at their door, Jake Lynn having gone to get some sleep before the next shift. He nods at the detective. The plan is for Enders to stand guard. And when it's time to spell Galen, Jake Lynn will remain in the room with John so he isn't alone.

Sherlock glances at Enders once, nods, and leaves for his lab. Enders nods back and takes up his position outside the door, facing the long hallway. He sighs. It's going to be a long night.

Galen Dennison moves to John's bedside, leans over and takes John's pulse. He notes the man is totally under, drowned in sleep. He nods, pleased at John's heart rate, records it on his chart, then clicks off the bedside table lamp. He crosses back to the elegant French writing desk, sits down, puts on his reading glasses and pulls John's medical files toward him.

Behind him, the open drapes allow a small amount of ambient light into the room, now gone quiet and still. The only light comes from the light in the bathroom, which Galen has left on, and the reading light on the desk. He opens John's files, flips open his notebook, and begins to read.

Across the room, John Watson sleeps.

OooOooO

Sherlock stops in the kitchen, notes that no one is around, but someone has done the washing up. He makes himself a sandwich, downs it quickly, then stands and stares out the window for a few minutes. He can barely make out the outlines of the walled garden in the light from the kitchen. The mansion is preternaturally quiet. He feels, momentarily, as if he is the only awake and aware sentient being on the planet.

The rest of the world is fast asleep.

He frowns and his fists clench in his pockets. John did not look good. The doctor is clearly exhausted and just as clearly at the end of his emotional – and mental – rope.

Sherlock can only hope that a night's sleep will help. He still feels uneasy about leaving John with anyone, even Galen Dennison, but he has read – and reread – the background information on the psychiatrist that Mycroft supplied him days back. And he feels no qualms about the man personally.

But then, neither did he feel any upon meeting Maggie Oakton. And he still doesn't have any solid feelings of unease about the American psychologist. Both she and Dennison appear to be highly educated, competent professionals, at home in their chosen fields.

Still – he is extremely grateful for the presence of Mycroft's men.

He just hates to leave John.

Sherlock turns from the window and makes his way quickly to the room now outfitted as a lab. He locks the door again on the inside, then washes his hands at the sink. He fully expects to have the answer by the morning, before John wakes. _Jesus, if_ _this doesn't work_ … his thoughts break off and he removes the carefully wrapped samples from his pockets. He does not text Agent Roaman to bring him the samples of the hated drug. He knows the new analyses will take all his time. He will not be able to go back to his work on the drug until these batches of medications are analysed.

He takes the samples that Galen gave him and places them on a tray, along with the vials of John's blood.

Sherlock seats himself on the tall stool. He rolls up the sleeves of the dark blue silk shirt – and gets to work.

He must – temporarily - allow his mind to push away the thought of the man who lies in their bed - so many hallways and stairs and rooms and hundreds of feet above and away from him.

He parks John Watson safely in a corner of his mind – and sets himself to concentrate solely on the microscopic world under his hands and fingers and eyes.

The hours fall away.

OooOooO

John dreams.

John's dream has none of the spectacular colors, sharp sounds or pulsating images of the dreams (here read _bloody nightmares_ ) he experienced while under the influence of Moriarty's drug. And it has none of the accompanying agonizing pain or nearly suffocating feelings of want, of need.

John's dream is quite simple, really.

In John's dream, he is in their small kitchen. He finishes the last of the morning's washing up, he's slower as of late, and slides the last china plate into its slot. He glances at the clock. Nearly time for afternoon tea. He moves to fill the kettle, to find and set out small cakes, pots of clotted cream and jam. His movements are slow, methodical. Then John goes to the garden door of the little cottage, shrugs into his coat, yes, the same lovely military-style wool coat that _she_ brought him all those years ago, and grabs his walking stick as it lays there, slanted against the wall. He thinks it's ridiculous that everyone insist he use the blasted thing. But if it will make Him happy … he takes the stick and realizes that it is, after all, rather useful in navigating the slightly uneven stones that line their small garden path.

He makes his slow way through their kitchen garden, the lupines are looking splendid, as usual, and he sees that the veg are nearly ready to bring in and yes, now he understands why He insists on occasionally trapping and studying the butterflies, as they are quite lovely in the afternoon sun, as they flit from flower to flower.

They usually go round and round about this as John insists the pretty little insects be left to their own devices and He always insists that nature made so many of the silly things, it won't matter if He appropriates a few, here and there _, "it's for scientific research, you understand, John."_

John opens the small gate at the end of the path, the one that always creaks, just a little, and makes his solitary way up the hill. The path here is much smoother and he barely needs the cane. But he takes the blasted thing, as he does not want another argument, and his ankle has just healed from the last time he stumbled – and fell – so perhaps it's for the best anyway.

As he nears the summit of the gentle incline, he can't help but smile because there He is. His tall figure is clearly visible as He moves slowly amongst the hives.

Then as if by the mutual telepathy they seem to share – have shared nearly their entire lives, John thinks – He looks up, sees John – and smiles. He takes off the long heavy gloves and tosses them down and removes the funny headgear, then runs a hand through the nearly flattened curls. They spring to life and the dark locks dance in the light breeze.

John can see a few new gray strands here and there, they shine in the bright sunlight. And his heart does a slow turn in his chest, as it always does at the sight of this man. Then he shakes his own pale head, all the dark blonde hairs gone a light silvery gray now. But His hair, despite the occasional gray strand, is still nearly ebony dark and John knows that after their tea, he will sit in his overstuffed armchair, in their living area, and He will curl up on the floor, lean back between John's legs, and read the latest scientific periodical aloud, while John listens to His deep, measured voice – and John strokes his hands through the dark, tumbled curls, as he's always done.

John stands where he is, and does not make his way the last few dozen feet up the little hill, because he knows that He will worry about John falling . So he stands and waits.

A moment later, He comes down to meet John, sighs, "You've come out without your gloves again." John just nods. And laughs. Then He turns John gently toward their home and as they walk down to their luncheon, He takes John's right hand in one of His own, and tucks it into the pocket of His coat to keep him warm. All these years and He's still wearing the same long, billowing wool coat. John has long since stopped teasing Him about it. And in the cool air, the deep warm pockets do come in handy.

As they walk back down the path together, they talk quietly to each other.

John can hear the gentle hum of the bees.

OooOooO

Greg Lestrade dresses slowly for John Watson's "funeral." He has been on his mobile half the morning, with Anderson, with Cates and Rodriguez, hell with half the bloody Yard. He has men who will be stationed throughout the memorial service – watching.

And waiting.

This better work.

He needs to remember to call his dear, long-suffering neighbor to tell her he might be a little late that evening and can she please keep his girls a little longer. He has an appointment with Mycroft Holmes and damn it, if the man doesn't have some good news for him, for a change – his thoughts break off and he stares at himself in the mirror.

_When did his hair get that grey?_

OooOooO

John wakes slowly. He stares upward at the cream paint of the ceiling. And sighs. He cannot remember what he was dreaming, but he knows it was peaceful and gentle and has left him with a feeling of hope.

"Doctor Watson, you all right there?" Jake Lynn's voice is calm, but nevertheless it slightly startles John.

He turns his head. Jake Lynn sits in a chair a few feet back from John's bed. He has been reading. He places the paperback on the small table next to John's bed. And stands up. He smiles down at the doctor.

"You've had a good long sleep. Feel any better?"

John sighs again and sits up, then swipes a hand through his hair. Really, he needs to see about a haircut and soon. Any longer and he can find a blasted rock band somewhere to join. Then he realizes that worrying about haircuts is not usually the sign of a man who just a few hours ago seriously contemplated killing himself.

At this hopeful thought, he smiles at Jake.

"Much better. And even a little peckish, too."

Jake nods. "Well, Mr. Holmes laid out your clothes in the loo. Want to have a shower and dress and we'll go down together?"

John nods and stands. Really, he feels much better, aside from a niggling headache. He chalks this up to a slight case of dehydration and vows to take care of that immediately. He does not know exactly what Galen gave him, but other than the headache, he has none of the usual feelings of slight disorientation and grogginess that sedatives usually bring.

A shower? Food? That sounds just fine.

John smiles at Lynn and pads across to the bathroom. "Out in a few," he calls.

Lynn nods. He has already made certain that there are no razors or sharp objects in the loo and he knows they won't be needed, not yet at any rate, as Mr. Holmes had shaved the doctor the night before. Lynn used the time that John slept to go through the worn duffle bag and the cubbies, just to make certain John has not stashed or hidden anything he can use to harm himself.

He glances at the bed, then shrugs and moves around it, smooths out the covers, plumps the pillows, then sits back down in the chair to wait for John.

OooOooO

The tinkling sound of the glass slide as it impacts the opposite wall, then shatters into tiny bits and falls to the laboratory floor is not very loud. It is immediately followed by a second and then a third slide. Just tiny bits of glass breaking, hardly noticeable.

The sound they make in Sherlock's heart is thunderous.

" _The same! Both bloody formulas are exactly the same. No difference at all."_

Sherlock rests his head in both hands, curls his long fingers in the dark curls and tugs in desperation.

No. Discernible. Difference.

"Not possible," he thinks. "There has to be a difference. Has to be. I'm missing something."

He stands and begins to pace back and forth between the sink, then the far opposite wall, then back to the sink again. While there he washes his hands for the fifth time that morning, then goes back to perch on the tall lab stool. He stares at the opposite wall at the tiny stain from the impact of the three slides.

" _I'm missing something. Think. Think !"_

Abruptly, he stands up, snags his jacket, locks the door of the lab and goes out to stand in the cold air.

Outside the front entrance to the mansion, he fists his hands in the pockets of his jacket. It is not quite as cold as it has been, but still cold enough to see his breath huff out in front of him. Bloody hell, he could use a cigarette. The useless patches are not working.

He stares at the rolling lawns and in the near distance, notes that John walks toward him, accompanied by Jake Lynn. He frowns.

" _Missing something. Something obvious."_

John looks up, sees Sherlock as he stands there in the entryway. And stops.

He holds his hands to his side. He wears the military coat that Anthea brought him. As usual, Sherlock notes, the stupid man has forgotten his gloves. Or just refuses to put them on.

The bright morning sun temporarily blinds Sherlock as he stands there. The small flash of light obscures John's figure. For one brief moment, Sherlock sees only the barest outline where John Watson stands. As if the man isn't really there at all. Then Sherlock narrows his eyes. And John comes back into focus again.

Sherlock sees John stand there, a scant 30 yards in front of him. Sees the way the sun glances off his bright head, notes how the light grey hairs reflect back the light and make him appear much blonder then he was weeks ago.

From this distance, Sherlock cannot see the lines of care and pain, the new lines engraved on John's face. He cannot see the faint tremor in his hand – or the sadly resigned look in John's eyes.

He only sees John.

Across the short expanse of lawn, the two men stare at each other.

" _I can't,"_ thinks Sherlock. " _I can't…not without You. John – Please."_

He looks across the expanse of lawn at his partner. Then Sherlock turns his back on John, goes back into the mansion – and slams the door behind him.

Jake Lynn stares after Sherlock, then turns to look at John Watson.

"Let him go," murmurs John. "He has to come to grips with this."

"Come to grips with what, Sir?" Lynn's voice is subdued in the morning air.

John just shakes his head. "Just let him go," he says quietly.

As they turn, John stumbles slightly and Jake puts out a gloved hand.

"You all right, Sir?" he asks, concerned about the doctor. He glances at his watch, notes that it is just a few minutes away from the doctor's scheduled session with Doctor Oakton.

John nods. "Fine. I – just a bad headache, that's all. Let's go in, okay?"

The two men turn and walk toward the side entrance to the walled garden.

OooOooO

Maggie knows what she is missing – music. Always at home, and with some of her client sessions, she has quiet music playing in the background. She glances at her cell phone – but even if she can pull up tunes on it, she doesn't have any headphones.

She rummages through her luggage to see if she has remembered to toss in a pair of ear buds. No luck. Well, maybe there's a radio in the kitchen. She can listen to music later that afternoon while she goes over her notes from her session with John.

She sighs, then drops her cell in her purse and goes to take her shower. She thus misses the text chime as Galen texts her to fill her in on the evenings' events.

As she dries her hair, the hair dryer drowns out the quiet sound of her phone as it rings. Galen tries to reach her on his mobile, then ends up leaving her a message.

Galen drops his phone into his pocket and swipes a hand over his eyes. Dear heaven, but he's tired. Less than four hours' sleep just does not get it. He still feels jet lagged from the long flight to London a few days back. He sighs. Considers lying back down for a few minutes, then shakes his head. He cannot take the chance that Maggie didn't get his text or message. He'll have to go find her. He begins to dress.

When Maggie comes out of the bathroom, she dresses quickly, realizes she is going to be late for her session with John, hurries to the library – and neglects to check her cell.

She enters through the large doors, to find John sitting patiently in chair by one of the tall windows. Agent Lynn stands a few feet away, talking quietly with the doctor.

"John, I'm so sorry if I kept you waiting." She nods at Lynn, who nods back and steps out of the room to take up a position directly outside the library door.

Maggie reaches into her purse, silences her cell, as she always does when she's with a patient, and seats herself opposite John Watson.

OooOooO

Galen hurries through the mansion, thinks briefly of stopping at Maggie's room, then glances at his watch and figures that Maggie is already deep into her session with John in the library. There's nothing for it. He'll just have to interrupt them.

Dear God, why is this place so huge?

OooOooO

"John?" Maggie notes the slight tremors and then sees how John's hand begins to shake as he clenches it to his side.

He looks at her in panic. "Maggie, I – Oh, hell!" He begins to stand, then doubles up and wraps both arms around his midsection. "Bloody. Hell !"

"John!"

Maggie drops her pad and pen and hurries to grab the doctor by his shoulders. She struggles to support his weight as he drops to the Oriental carpet, makes certain he is lying flat on the floor, then reaches to snag her briefcase by the leather handles. She tugs it to her and gropes inside for the small case.

Maggie shouts for help as she shakily uses her teeth to yank the cap off the end of the hypo, all the while keeping one hand on John's convulsing body. Agent Jake Lynn hears the shout, muffled through the heavy doors, but he hears it nevertheless and rushes into the room. He sees John as he writhes on the carpet in agony. Jake pulls out his mobile and hits the call button on Galen Dennison's number.

He stands in the hallway as he listens to the ring, and glances up as Dennison himself comes rushing toward him. "Watson," Jake says hurriedly. Galen's eyes widen and he hurries into the library.

Galen comes in just as Maggie tosses the empty hypo to the side and attempts to hold onto the doctor's shaking body with her slim hands.

"John – Doctor Watson!" She holds his shoulders down as best as she is able, all the while she shouts for Lynn to get Doctor Dennison.

"I'm here, Mags," Dennison gasps. He drops to his knees by John and reaches out to help support John's body during the attack.

John stares up at both of them and groans aloud. Sweat pours down his hairline and drips onto his shirt collar, soaks into the pale blue jumper. His face is pale, waxy.

"I can't – Jesus! Just all of you – fuck off! What bloody _use_ are you if you can't get me some help!" He continues to pour vitriol at both of them as they struggle to hold onto his shaking body.

As both Galen and Maggie attempt to hold him down without harming him, John's head snaps back, his spine arches and he clutches at the carpet with his fingertips in desperation. John groans aloud in agony and it takes both of them to hold him as still as possible so he doesn't hurt himself during the convulsions.

Finally, _oh finally,_ Maggie thinks, John's body goes limp in their grasp.

Maggie frowns as she brushes her hand over John's hair in an attempt to soothe the beleaguered doctor. As John loses consciousness, his eyes close and his breath comes in desperate gasps, his body wracked by small tremors. Her heart breaks for John and she notes her own hands shake.

Galen glances around, and his eyes widen as he notes the empty hypodermic lying to the side. He stares across John Watson's body at Maggie Oakton in quiet horror.

"Mags - what have you done?"

She stares back at him.

OooOooO

Sherlock makes his way back to his laboratory, unlocks the door, enters – and locks himself in from the other side.

He goes back to his stool, then sits and stares at the samples that Dennison has given him.

They line up on the counter, in neat little rows. Each one labeled in Sherlock's thin slanting hand.

**CNTRL / Dennison. This sample lies on top of an MSDS sheet, listing the ingredients of John's med.**

**CNTRL / St. Anne's. Neatly followed by several vials labeled S.A.**

Neatly labeled. Neatly bracketed. Utterly useless.

_I can find nothing,_ Sherlock thinks. _Nothing at all._

_But there has to be something. Something I have missed._

He stares at the samples. His eyes see the small narrow glass vessels.

**But his heart -** a grey mist lies over his heart; a mist that grows, that begins to obscure his mental processes, to spread over his soul – and blank out his future.

_I've bloody well missed something. Must have._

He accepts that he has made an error. There is no other explanation for it.

Because the alternative is simply not acceptable.

He reaches to pick up a small vial of John's blood, holds it up to the light.

John's blood. Here _he_ is, in this tiny vial. Here is the man he loves. Right here in his hand. John's blood. John's DNA. **_John_** _._

Sherlock holds onto the small vial, closes his fingers around it tightly – and feels the beginning of despair. He narrows his eyes.

_To hell with this. You've made an error. Accept it – And Begin Again._

Furious with himself, he shakes off the horrid feeling – and gets back to work. He glances around the lab, at the autoclave, the centrifuge, the flasks and burners and myriad laboratory equipment, then he reaches for a vial, selects a fresh box of slides, turns to a fresh page in his notebook – and starts over.

A little less than two hours later, Sherlock acknowledges that he's just too tired to continue. He cannot be certain he isn't replicating errors when he's this exhausted. He'll come back after a couple of hour's sleep. He texts Enders to come get his samples. When he doesn't receive an acknowledging text, he calls Enders directly.

"Mr. Holmes, you need to come to the room, Sir."

Sherlock doesn't even acknowledge Enders. He drops his phone in his pocket, locks his samples in the cabinet, locks the lab and hurriedly makes his way upstairs. By the time he hits the curving staircase, he's running.

In their hallway, Agents Lynn and Enders stand outside their partially open door, in conference with Galen Dennison. They both turn to him to speak. He notes their concerned expressions, and nods for them to accompany them into their room.

As he walks in, John wakes up from his attack.

And doesn't recognize Sherlock.

OooOooO

Maggie Oakton sits at one of the long stools in the kitchen, her head in her hands. _Damn it all to hell and back._ Everything, but everything has gone straight to hell and she cannot even fathom how any of it happened. Her cell phone lies on the counter in front of her, no longer silenced, and she keeps glancing at it. So far, John Watson has not had any abnormal reaction to the injection she gave him, no difficulty in breathing, nothing like before, and his heart rate has returned to normal after the attack. So that's something.

Dennison says he is sleeping off the attack, his pulse rate has slowed, and he appears to be all right. But they won't know for certain until he wakes up.

By mutual agreement, Maggie waits until Dennison calls her to let her know that John is awake. Both of them considered going to get Sherlock in the lab, but the doctor is sleeping off the attack, as he always does, and for the life of them, they don't know what the detective could have done anyway.

She shakes her head again and wonders if John should be returned to hospital immediately. Then she remembers the man is, technically, dead. She groans and shuts her eyes again. There'll be hell to pay for this one and she knows who will be paying it. She wonders if she should go ahead and call Mycroft?

"Doctor Oakton." The kitchen doors open and Maggie glances up. Her eyes widen and her own pulse rate soars as Agents Lynn and Enders step through the double doors, followed immediately by Sherlock Holmes.

All three men are armed. Enders and Lynn keep their guns trained steadily on her and split up as they enter, one man to her left and one to her right. Neither one speaks.

She stares at them, then at Sherlock as he raises his own weapon - and points it straight at her head.

She attempts to speak, finds that she can't even breathe properly. Really, this cannot be happening. It can't.

Sherlock considers Maggie Oakton carefully as he raises John's Makarov and holds it trained on her with both hands. Both agents are silent. They just watch.

His voice, when it comes, is ice. The tones crawl over her spine. Her heart labors in her chest and she very slowly lowers her hands from where they were grasping at her hair.

The detective's eyes are a nearly colorless, crystalline blue frost as they stare at her almost curiously.

"What did he promise you, Doctor Oakton? Money? Your life?"

"Sherlock? I –"

"Call me _Sherlock_ again." He takes a step closer to her, his weapon raised in rock steady hands, the muzzle pointed right between her brilliant green eyes.

"I wonder what you were promised, Doctor Oakton, to ruin a man's life. To wreck his health and destroy his very existence. What was it, Oakton? Or should we take you upstairs with us so you can tell John Watson to his face what your motivations were? I ask, you see, because criminal actions interest me, in my line of work. And I find yours particularly heinous."

Both agents move in on Maggie Oakton, as she sits there, stares down the muzzle of the Makarov. And shakes.

OooOooO


	12. Chapter 12

**These characters in their current incarnation belong to the BBC and in their original incarnation, to the estate of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.**

**THE BOYS OF BAKER STREET**

**CH. 12**

**NOTE: This ongoing work is a Trilogy.  This is Book Two.   This work occasionally references events that occurred in Book One:  THERE BUT FOR THE GRACE OF JOHN WATSON. If you have not read that work, you might not "get" some of the references in this story. You might want to stop right here and go read GRACE first, then come back to BOYS.  Otherwise, your reading experience will not have the intensity that I labored so hard to create for you.**

**WARNINGS: Language; Implied sexual congress between two males; and the wanton destruction of one really lovely antique Chinese vase.**

**OooOooO**

"The fear of death follows from the fear of life. A man who lives fully is prepared to die at any time."  
― Mark Twain

OooOooO

**Thirty Minutes Earlier -**

John opens his weary eyes and automatically turns his head toward the door. His eyes stare - and he frantically struggles to rise.

Sherlock moves forward to help him, then realizes it is not welcome he sees in the dark blue eyes – but sheer panic.

John does not recognize him.

A moment's pause during which the detective's eyes widen and something with razor sharp edges carves its way through his gut. Then - instinctively, Sherlock holds his hands out, palms open.

"John?" He speaks slowly, as if to a child. Sherlock's heart hammers in his chest.

John does not speak, but he scrambles upright, just manages to get to his feet – his right hand automatically reaches to the back waistband of the flannel drawstrings. His hand comes back empty – no Browning. Then he just lets his hands rest at his side, and he stands and stares at the pale stranger in front of him with the dark curls and the startled, _read horrified,_ look on his face.

"John." Sherlock's baritone voice is low, cautious. He tries to keep the terror out of it.

One beat, two.

Then John Watson's vision blurs, his eyes widen, and he sits down suddenly on the edge of the bed - and wipes a shaking hand over his face. He looks back up at the man in front of him through a faint red mist. There's a roaring sound in his ears. His heart rate soars.

"Bloody hell! Sherlock."

Both men stare at each other for a second, then Sherlock moves forward cautiously and slowly kneels at John's feet. _Keep your movements small, non-threatening._

He reaches out hesitantly to take John's hands in his. And John lets him.

Sherlock groans in relief. And can't stop staring into the dark bruised eyes.

"John. All right now?"

The doctor nods. But his breath comes in gulps and he looks searchingly into Sherlock's grey eyes. His eyes fill – and he ducks his head toward their clasped hands.

John's voice is a harsh whisper. "Sherlock…what – what was _that?"_

He looks back up at the detective – and Sherlock hears the barely disguised panic in his Army doctor's voice.

Sherlock continues to hold John's clasped hands in his. He throws his questions over his shoulder, without taking his eyes off John Watson's face.

"Someone want to tell me what just happened?" he demands.

Galen Dennison comes hesitantly into the room, followed quickly by Agents Lynn and Enders.

OooOooO

Maggie Oakton begins to shake. And suddenly, her right hand scrambles to her chest and her eyes widen, and she begins to gasp for air.

Sherlock's gaze is frosty. His hands do not waiver. He looks over Maggie's head to Agent Lynn and then jerks his head toward her.

Jake Lynn glances at Enders.

"Got her," Enders says quietly. He keeps his weapon steadily trained on Maggie Oakton.

Jake nods. He lowers his weapon, crosses to where Maggie sits, picks up her purse which sits next to her and dumps the contents on the counter. He digs through the detritus of the psychologist's handbag, finds the inhaler and hands it to Maggie in one curt motion. He notes there is no weapon among the contents scattered on the counter top. He steps back – and raises his Sig Sauer again.

She gasps, snatches at the inhaler and holds it close to her mouth, her shaking hand depresses the top and she takes a few gasping breathes.

Two minutes pass, and her breathing finally slows. Her left hand is splayed flat on the countertop and her right holds onto the inhaler as if it is a lifeline.

Maggie's breath begins to calm down. She shuts her eyes to shut out the sight of Sherlock Holmes who stands in front of her, the Makarov in his hands. And consciously tries to slow her respiration rate.

"Take the good doctor to her room – and lock her in," says Sherlock coldly. "Post a guard outside her door. And make certain the landline is disconnected in that room."

He glances toward both agents. "I'll be along later. I need to make a call."

Maggie automatically reaches for her cell – "Leave it," Sherlock says curtly. She withdraws her hand, then manages to shakily stand and holding only the asthma inhaler is escorted out of the kitchen by Lynn and Enders.

Sherlock keeps the Makarov trained on her as they go through the double doors. Then he slowly lowers it, turns to stare at the contents of her purse. He finally moves around the counter and picks up her mobile. He glances at the screen, then begins to thumb through all the calls and texts she has sent and received. There haven't been many – just a few between her and Dennison, a few between Oakton and one or other of Mycroft's agents - and a few between her and Sherlock himself, during the time they have been in the mansion.

He notes immediately that she never read the text from Galen Dennison, nor did she answer his phone call. He raises one eyebrow and turns to stare at the double doors.

OooOooO

Stephan Yanni ducks into the small room where the cleaning supplies for the fifth floor are kept, stands there and shakes for a few minutes. His heart pounds in his chest. He thinks his knees may buckle.

Sodding hell. This is the same sickening fear all over again. He wipes his forehead with one of the clean rags, then tosses it down and stares at his reflection in the small mirror someone has glued to the wall.

He doesn't recognize himself.

" _Just do it, coward. Just go in there and do it. No one will know. No one will find him until later.. Just do it. And then go about your business."_

And then his sister will be safe and his niece will be safe. And most important of all, He will be safe.

He takes a deep breath and then reaches into the pockets of his uniform to grasp the small canister that looks all the world like a simple asthma inhaler. Just one spray. That's what they told him. Just the one simple spray – and Holmes is gone. That makes both of them, then. Holmes and Watson – gone. He missed Hansen but he did get a cop, so that's something. They can't continue to blame him because the stupid cow got out of the car, can they?

Stephen Yanni, ever the pragmatist, drops the canister back into his pocket, grabs his cleaning supplies and opens the door.

Forty-five minutes later, he has worked his way up to the room – His room. He has timed it for shift change. He glances at the nearest nurse's station. No one is there. They all huddle around their supervisor to compare notes and patient records at the far end of the hall, stand around one of those portable work stations.

He pushes the cart to the door of His room, glances down the hall toward the nurses one last time, then pushes the door open quietly and goes on in.

Stephan stands for just a moment, to let his eyes adjust to the darkened room. Someone has pulled the long shades and the room sits in shadow. His heart threatens to beat out of his chest. He swallows, then walks up to the sick man's bedside, gropes in his pocket and grabs the small canister.

He leans over the sleeping figure with the dark curls.

"None of that!" A strong hand grabs his wrist and Stephan drops the small canister, then begins to weakly fight back. The overhead lights click on and he blinks against the sudden glare.

He looks back at the man in the bed – who currently holds his wrists in one strong grip - and his eyes widen as he faces the man who is so obviously _not_ injured and _not_ dying and is also, obviously, _not_ Sherlock Holmes.

The man-who-is-not-Holmes holds onto Stephan's thin wrist and grimly forces it up and back, nearly breaks it in the process. Stephan immediately stops struggling. And begins to whimper. It isn't even the beginnings of a fight.

His attention is jerked to the presence of a second man who steps out of the shadows and snaps handcuffs at him, first the one wrist, yanks his hand behind him, then the second. The first man, the one in the hospital bed with the dark curls, stares grimly into Stephan's' brilliant blue eyes.

"Stephan Yanni, I arrest you for the murder of Sergeant Sally Donovan and for the attempted murder of Lori Hansen and of Sherlock Holmes."

The second officer yanks Stephan's body upright and begins to speak quickly.

"Stephan Yanni, You do not have to say anything, but it may harm your defence …"

The Right to Silence goes on but Stephan just stands, his heart pounds in his chest, and he stares wild-eyed at the officer in front of him. A warm liquid drenches the front of his trousers.

"Christ, he's pissed himself," the second officer says, as he twirls Stephan's unresisting body around and slams it into the nearest wall.

The first officer runs a hand through his dark curls, then stands up, crosses to Stephan and bends down to whisper in one year.

"You know, Yanni, it's a bloody shame that he's read you your rights. A bloody fuckin' shame. A few of us want to have a word or two with you – about Sgt. Donovan. And that may still happen, you bloody pathetic excuse for a human being."

Stephan swallows. And shuts his eyes in terror.

OooOooO

Mycroft answers on the first ring. He fishes his Blackberry out of his pocket, looks at the screen, then glances around the rapidly filling hall.

"Sherlock, this had better be good," he starts.

"Oakton," his brother's voice is curt.

Mycroft sighs. "What about Maggie?"

"She may have tried to kill John."

Dead silence. Mycroft removes his gaze from the hall where John Watson's "Memorial Service" is about to take place and stares at the small screen in his hand. Seven responses flit through his mind in six seconds. He discounts each of them.

"Explain," he says curtly.

Sherlock begins to talk.

Mycroft rubs one hand between his eyes. From where he stands, he sees DI Lestrade enter the hall, followed closely by two of his officers – all three dressed in suits and ties.

"Sherlock, I need to talk with Maggie – Doctor Oakton. "

"Impossible."

"Sherlock –"

"No, Mycroft. If you need to speak with her so urgently, then get your sorry arse out here and do it in person. I'm not giving her phone back to her until I know what the fuck is going on. And one more thing –"

"Sherlock –" the elder Holmes' tone holds a tone of warning. Sherlock ignores it.

"I need our family physician on board – now – for John. You have made it impossible for me to get him to any local hospital for treatment, as he is supposed to be dead to all and sundry. I need Fields. Now. And a nurse as well. Bloody hell, Mycroft, I thought you had all of this in hand."

Mycroft lowers his phone, stares across the room at DI Lestrade, makes eye contact, nods.

Lestrade nods back at him, then turns to speak with one of his officers.

Mycroft sighs. "I've already spoken with Dr. Fields. He should arrive later today. As for a nurse - I'll put Anthea on it immediately. I assume Dr. Fields will have a personal preference. And I will come out there, later this evening, to speak with Oakton in person. Expect me. Anything else, little brother?"

"Yes. But I'll speak with you when you get here. We need another two men."

"Sherlock – I've already posted five men at the manor, in shifts—"

"I don't give a bloody hell how many you've sent. I need at least two more – unless you intend to get out here and interrogate Oakton today. I want her removed Mycroft - immediately. I can't spare any more of your people to guard her unless you can assure me she had nothing to do with John's current condition. And right now, Mycroft, I can only think of one way you can give me that assurance."

Mycroft frowns. "John's condition. What condition is that?"

Sherlock talks, his tones angry, swift. Mycroft listens. When he hangs up, he stares around the hall. Bloody hell, can this get any more bloody complicated?

He raises the Blackberry and punches the button next to her number. She answers on the first ring.

"Yes sir?"

"Bit of a complication at the manor house," murmurs Mycroft. He nods at one of his own men, who casually makes his way over to speak with Mycroft.

"Tell me what you need, Sir."

He drops his phone in his pocket, has a word with the agent who has come over and then walks toward Greg Lestrade.

OooOooO

Maggie sits at the writing desk in her room.

She has a notepad and pen in her hand and her hand still shakes as she jots down what she can recall of John's treatment and injections over the past couple of days. Damn it! All of her notes are in her briefcase and that is in the kitchen. She doubts if Holmes – or anyone – will allow her to have it.

She frowns as she tries to recall each injection that John had – and who gave it to him and when.

There is a tap at her door and she raises her dark head to stare. She hears the sound of the door as it is unlocked and opens.

Galen Dennison pokes his head in, then comes all the way into her room. One of Mycroft's men enters directly behind Galen. Williams? Yes, that is the man's name. Williams.

"Mags? Can I -?"

"Galen!" She stands abruptly and her notes fall to the floor. She takes two steps toward the psychiatrist and nearly stumbles as her knees give out under her.

He rushes to catch her by her shoulders – "Maggie!"

She shakes her head, pushes back against his chest and stands. She runs one hand through her dark hair and then looks at Galen grimly.

"Galen – how is John – Doctor Watson now? Is he -?"

Galen nods once at Mycroft's man, who glances around the room, fixes Maggie with a cool stare, then nods back at Galen and leaves the room. He pulls the door closed behind him. Galen puts one steady arm around Maggie's shoulder.

"Let's sit, Maggie. We need to talk."

OooOooO

Sherlock stands in the kitchen and stares out into the walled garden. When his mobile rings, he has it out of his pocket, thumbs the button and answers before the second ring. He notes it is Anthea.

"Give me something I can use or don't waste my time," he all but snarls into the phone.

She sighs. Really, Sherlock can be a brat at times.

She talks and Sherlock listens. When she is finished, she rings off – and Sherlock nods his dark head. Excellent.

He drops the phone in his pocket and hurries to check on John.

When he gets back to their room, John is not there.

OooOooO

Under the frankly terrifying attention of James Moriarty, Dr. Strunk prepares the next report. He prints it out on letterhead, signs it, and hands it over to Moriarty.

Jim takes it, glances at the verbiage, then coolly nods at Strunk.

"Is this one, also, tied into the local police report?" he asks curtly.

Strunk nods. "Yes. The details match up."

"Good." Jim lowers the pages and stares at Strunk curiously, then he swivels on one heel and leaves Struck at his desk, shaken and white-faced.

As he leaves, Jim starts to whistle tunelessly to himself. Things are looking up. His mobile rings and he fishes it out of his trouser pocket. _Billings – reporting in._ Excellent. He pushes the button.

OooOooO

Sherlock glances quickly around their room, notes that John showered before he left. He goes in search of the doctor. He leaves their floor and as he walks down the main hallway, Jake Lynn walks toward him. At Sherlock's unspoken question, Jake just nods wearily.

"In the library," he says. "He seems to be all right. I've left Enders on guard."

Sherlock nods his thanks.

At the door to the library, Enders looks steadily at the detective. "Just sitting there, Sir. Didn't have much to say."

"All right." Sherlock hesitates, then pushes through the library door.

John glances up at him when he comes in. The doctor sits in what has become his favorite seat by one of the tall sets of windows. He sits back a bit so he is not in the direct sunlight.

John watches Sherlock cross the room.

The detective stands in front of his Army doctor for a moment, then seats himself in the chair opposite John Watson.

"You all right?" he asks.

"You tell me," John says quietly. He rubs one hand over his face, glances out the window, then looks back at Sherlock. And suddenly grins.

At that grin, Sherlock's heart does a slow turn in his chest. He looks at John, then sighs.

"John, I've got Oakton under what amounts to house arrest," he says.

John stares at him. "Maggie? Why?" He frowns at the detective, then his eyes widen. "Don't tell me you suspect she had anything to do with what happened to me back there."

Sherlock nods, his eyes never leaving John's. "John, she gave you the injection. She wasn't even supposed to have one on her person. That's Dennison's job now. And I gave Dennison direct orders not to use any of the new batch of medication on you until I had finished my analysis."

John considers him, then he leans forward, and clasps his hands together.

"And? Have you finished it?" He regards the detective with a steady but weary gaze.

Sherlock frowns, then shakes his head. "No. I broke off to get a few hours' sleep. Going back to it later. But something isn't – right." He murmurs this, nearly to himself.

"What?"

Sherlock sighs and leans forward slightly. "John, I finished the first round of analyses – and I found no difference whatsoever between the two formulas. None."

John nods. And thinks for a moment. "Okay. And - given what you just said - you have Maggie – Doctor Oakton under arrest – _why_ , exactly?"

Sherlock sighs and tries to explain – again – the circumstances. _Really, John, try to keep up, will you?_

Out loud all he says is, "Because, John, _she_ is the one who injected you. And bloody hell," he leans back and crosses his arms and stares across the short distance to John Watson. "I don't even know who we can and can't trust at the moment." He fixes John with a glance born in steel.

John considers his clasped hands. For once, his head does not hurt and for that he is supremely grateful. Actually, he feels pretty darned good all things considered.

"All right." He thinks for a moment. Sherlock just waits.

John glances up. "You need some sleep, Sherlock. Hell, we both do." He comes to a decision, stands, and extends one hand to the detective.

Startled, Sherlock takes John's hand in his. He stands up next to John and stares slightly down into the dark blue troubled eyes.

John just smiles tiredly. "Come on. Two grown men – and we both need a bit of a kip." He tugs at Sherlock's hand and the detective follows the doctor out of the library.

OooOooO

Sherlock follows John into their room. He shuts – and locks – the door behind him. Then he just stands there and considers John Watson.

John crosses to sit on the side of their bed, then he leans forward, his clasped hands in front of him. He stares at Sherlock and raises one dark blonde eyebrow at the click of the door lock.

Sherlock looks at John – and he feels something trying to claw its way out of his chest. He's going to choke on it in a minute.

And then he recognizes this for what it is.

This feeling of urgency … this feeling of want … of need for John Watson has nothing to do with John's capture and imprisonment and everything to do with his torture at the hands of James Moriarty.

This is about the new scar along John's thigh … the scar that marks where Sebastian Moran's bullet buried itself in John's leg.

This is about the scar tissue on John's shoulder, the twisted puckered muscle – and the unknown sniper who shot the man he loved, shot him and left him for dead in the brown Afghan dust. _"And I didn't even know him, then,"_ thinks Sherlock. _We might never have-"_ his thoughts break off.

Sherlock continues to stare at John.

This is about the fact that at any given moment in time, John Watson can be taken away from him – away from Sherlock.

And he has no idea in hell of how to prevent that.

He can only claim what is his. What he intends to keep and hold onto. This is about his need to mark John Watson as belonging to Sherlock. Mark him – and hope it's enough to stave off the monsters.

Possession be damned.

He takes a step forward and never removes his hungry gaze from John's eyes.

John stares amusedly back. He can feel his heart pound in his chest. **_Sherlock_** !

"Well," John says dryly, "Are you going to jump my bones now – or jump my bones later?"

The detective's eyes narrow. Christ, sometimes John sees too bloody much for his own good.

"I think," Sherlock says, moving forward as he unbuttons the sleeves of the dark silk shirt, "Now."

He reaches down and pulls John to his feet by his wrists. The doctor goes along willingly.

Sherlock's thumbs rub against the inside sinew of John's wrists. He rubs up and down on John's skin, never letting go of John's hands. He stares directly down into John's eyes. And John stares directly back.

Then something, some small glimmer in John's dark eyes, relinquishes control. And Sherlock's mouth comes down hungrily on John's. Some part of him thinks he should ask his Army doctor if his headache has gone away … but he's afraid John will tell him and then he'll have to stop.

So he doesn't. Ask him that is. Or stop. He does neither of those things.

He does, however, let go of one of John's wrists. He keeps tight hold of the other one, pulls John's body closer to his so his mouth can reach – everywhere.

"Well, all right, then," John manages to say even as his lips are being crushed by the world's only consulting detective.

He reaches out with his free hand to click off the table lamp and his shaking fingers succeed in knocking over the small vase that sits next to it with a crackle of porcelain. "Bloody hell," he breathes against Sherlock's greedy mouth.

"Never mind," Sherlock murmurs as he plants fast, furious, gasping kisses down John's neck and along his collarbone, then bends his dark head to go lower. "Plenty more Ming Dynasty where that came from."

John groans.

OooOooO

"What's the story here?" Lestrade murmurs to Mycroft Holmes. They stand outside the double doors of the memorial hall. Lestrade glances around again and raises an eyebrow. He peruses the small gathering twice before he realizes what he is _not_ seeing. He turns to Mycroft, who watches him dryly.

"John was a Captain in the RAMC," Lestrade says quietly. "A decorated veteran. Why isn't this place crawling with his fellow officers and soldiers? " Greg glances around again, counts seven, no make that eight obvious service men – and women - in uniform. He counts five of his own people. Once again, he mentally winces at Donovan's absence. _God damn it_ –

Mycroft glances around, also, and speaks quietly to Lestrade. Greg thinks, " _Bloody hell, the man has made speaking out of the side of his mouth an art form."_

"We deliberately kept most of the press in the dark about this little gathering," Mycroft say quietly. "And we took none of the usual steps to inform John's – Capt. Watson's former regiment that he had, er, passed on. I imagine a few locals found out, however. We knew there would be hell to pay, once this little charade is over, with Doctor Watson."

"Not to mention the nightmare of bringing the man back to life, not only with his former comrades-in-arms, but with the clinic, the NHS, and the world in general," Lestrade fills in quietly.

Mycroft nods. "Excuse me," he says and moves away from Lestrade to have a word with what Lestrade only assumes is one of his men at the door. As he moves away, his Blackberry buzzes in his pocket.

Greg wanders over to the front of the room, glances at the few floral arrangements and at the enlarged photo of John that sits on an easel in the front of the room. He notes there is no urn, no casket. And nods. _Okay, then. Let's see if we can flush some of the bastards –_

"Excuse me," the man stands directly behind Lestrade and it is a testament to Greg's years with the Yard that he doesn't jump a foot. But he thinks about it.

"This is – is this the service for Captain Watson? – Aw-w, there he is," the man indicates John's photo with a sweep of a tanned hand. Greg's eyes narrow. Something about this individual instantly bothers the D.I.

"I just wanted to stop by and pay my respects. I understand this has all been quite hush, hush. Wonder why?"

The man is only slightly above average height, stocky, muscular. The haircut, his stance, the recent tan – everything screams military. Shite, a former comrade of John Watson's. Greg notes the man is not in uniform, however, so he has no idea on how to address him.

"Greg Lestrade," Lestrade holds out his hand. The man takes it in his, nods once.

"Yes. D.I. Lestrade of the Yard, correct?" he says.

Lestrade nods. And frowns at the man's instant recognition of his name and title.

"Well, I wasn't part of the Captain's squad. But I met him once. He did a chum of mine a good turn. Saved the man's leg – and life," he says. He glances at the photo once last time, then looks around the slowly filling room. Frowns.

"You'd think more of his Army chums and mates would be here," he murmurs, almost to himself, rather than to Lestrade.

Lestrade nods. "Give them time. I understand that John's – Doctor Watson's sister asked that the services be kept to immediate friends and family, which would account for the small turnout." The lie comes smoothly to Greg's lips. He studies the other man with seemingly casual interest.

Something is just a tad _off._ Maybe it's the light blue eyes. The pupils are nearly perfectly round and his eyes are a pale, steady blue. Faint alarm bells begin to sound in the DI's mind.

He glances around for Mycroft. Spots the elder Holmes at the entry to the room.

"Excuse me," he murmurs. "Have to have a word. Back in a few."

"Of course," the man moves to take a seat, near the middle of a row. He leans back, lays one arm casually along the back of the pew. Then Mick Billings idly stretches out both legs, crosses one ankle over the other and glances around the room. He grins at nothing and no one in particular.

Lestrade walks away from the man, keeps Mycroft in his sight. As he makes his way toward Mycroft, he realizes the other man did not introduce himself. He frowns.

He comes up next to Mycroft, who is on his phone. Greg looks at Mycroft's face and notes that the elder Holmes has just received information of interest.

Mycroft ends his call and drops his phone into the pocket of his elegantly-tailored suit jacket. He fixes Lestrade with a grim stare.

"Your people appear to have apprehended the suspect who may be responsible for your Sergeant Donovan's death."

Lestrade's eyes widen. "How in bloody hell do _you_ know that before I do -!" He fumbles for his mobile, even as it rings in his hand.

Mycroft just looks steadily at Greg, and sighs.

OooOooO

Both men sleep for a few hours. Sherlock wakes first. For a few minutes, he just lies there and listens to John's quiet breathing. The doctor is curled up next to him, his head just fits into the curve of his outstretched arm. Then he sighs, quietly maneuvers away from John and out of their bed and crosses the room to shower. John murmurs something, then is instantly asleep again.

Sherlock writes John a small note, leaves it on the table next to the bed and makes his way back to his laboratory. He glances at his watch, then retrieves all of the samples from the locked cabinet and gets back to work. He works steadily through the afternoon, then finally ends it and prepares to go check on John. He texts Roaman again.

Sherlock hands the samples to Roaman, who tilts an eyebrow. Sherlock just tiredly shakes his head at the agent, who frowns and leaves, samples in hand.

The detective goes back in, washes his hands, then just stands there, his hands in his pockets, and stares at the long counter full of lab equipment. A mist suddenly obscures his vision. He shakes his head angrily, then reaches out to the largest Erlenmeyer flask, grasps it in his long fingers – and hurls it at the opposite wall. He listens to the crashing sounds of breaking glass.

The detective looks around the lab and his eyes finally come to rest on his microscope. He turns off the light, locks the lab door and makes his way back upstairs to check on John in their room.

At the top of the curving stairs, he hears the front door open and turns.

John comes in from a late afternoon walk accompanied by Jake Lynn. He lays his coat carefully on the table in the entryway. His movements are slow, methodical. He tilts his bright head and stares up at the tall man who stands at the top of the stairway.

Jake Lynn nods in Sherlock's general direction and walks down the side hallway toward the kitchen.

Sherlock stands and looks down the stairs to where John stands, bathed in the yellow-white sunlight from the windows. The afternoon light pours in and slants along the teak floors, carving out pools of warmth; it slants in and touches the edges of the mahogany table; it glances along the carved oak banisters that curve downward and upward along the stairs; it tips the dark polished wood in ribbons of light; it drifts in and touches John's hair – and paints it a heart-rending brilliant pale gold.

Sherlock stands there and stares downward at John Watson.

John does not move. He just looks toward Sherlock. As he has always done.

Sherlock stares at John. Then he shuts his eyes and ducks his dark head and his hands, clenched in the pockets of his trousers, come out, unclench, and hang by his side. He breathes…one deep breath … two… and then he lifts his head to look at John.

John looks steadily back at Sherlock. And understands.

Neither man moves.

OooOooO

"No more hospitals," John says tiredly. "We have everything we need here. Hell, you've got everything you need here. You can figure this out, Sherlock. And you will. You know it and I know it." He rubs absently at a line between his eyes, notes that another sickening headache has started behind his temple.

"John –" Sherlock stands at their window, his fists fist in his pockets and looks out at the afternoon. "How can you still have faith in me – when I have so little in myself?" he murmurs, more to himself than to the man who stands across the room.

John reaches to turn off the bedside lamp. The small light hurts his eyes. His head has begun to hurt again in earnest. He frowns at the rapid onset of the pounding. Then he sighs.

"You'll figure it out," John says. "I have faith in you, Sherlock, always. " He looks at the back of the tall man and at the way the tangled curls glow a dark auburn as he stands there at the window. "Always." His voice trails off. " _God, he's beautiful,"_ John thinks. " _So beautiful. I can't_ –"

His thoughts break off and he winces in the deepening afternoon light that comes from their window, the light that Sherlock stands in, his back toward John.

 _Bloody hell, his head hurts._ If he could just get rid of this pounding headache. If he could just _think_ clearly. Then he could be of some _use_ to Sherlock. As it is -

"But no more hospitals. I'll put it in writing, if need be. I mean it, Sherlock. I'm not going back. No matter what. Please don't ask me."

His lover’s back stiffens. He promises John nothing but continues to stare out at the winter grounds.

"This is what you _do_ , Sherlock," John says. He watches the other man as he turns and begins to pace back and forth, from their window, past the French writing desk now, slight pause as he glances down at the folder that contains the reports – _those_ reports – **"Lies,"** Sherlock says – **lies,** John hopes, _only_ , _if they are lies, then why_ – past the door to their gorgeous and utterly unnecessarily huge bathroom - then directly down the middle of the carpet, past the louvered French doors that hide the cubbies and their bags and clean laundry, more carpet, now level with their bed, nearly to John, turns, back with the bed again, and makes his way back to the tall windows. Where he stands – and stares out.

"Sherlock – _Sherlock."_

"You sound like Mummy," Sherlock says tiredly. "John … just – let it be - "

"No," John says. "I can't let you think that you … " His voice breaks off and he frowns at the pounding in his head. "I can't let you believe that – "

He stops, realizes the other man isn't even listening to him, or rather, he listens but does not _hear_ what John so desperately needs to say. He wants to shake his head at his own thoughts, but his head - Hurts. He stares at Sherlock through a pale red haze. His heart labors in his chest.

Something has changed. Something is – different.

 _Something is wrong,_ thinks John. The headache is worse and now, the pain – _I'm a doctor, for Christ's sakes. I should be able to figure this out. This is – familiar._ Why _is this familiar? What the hell ! ?_

He needs to ask Sherlock to call Dennison. He needs Sherlock to call for something for his head, ask for something for the pain. He opens his mouth to ask him to please do this for him - and nothing comes out. John frowns. That's not right. He tries again to speak.

John stares at Sherlock as he stands at the window, his back to John.

John stares at Sherlock as the detective's tall figure oh-so-slowly slides upward, but that shouldn't be possible, should it? And John stares at Sherlock's long legs as they slide, too, and at the way his designer trousers fall in one graceful line and at the way the hems just reach the top of the heels of his Italian leather shoes and at the way the entire room slips away from him and at the impossibly bright swirling colours that only make his head ache even more, and at the moving shadows in the edges of the room and just beyond his range of sight … the shadows that now appear to stare back at him.

_No! Christ - No!_

John shuts his eyes when he finally slumps to the carpet. He keeps them closed when he hears his name, "John!"

Keeps them closed when he feels his love lean over him, support his head with one shaking hand, lift it up.

Keeps them closed when the world begins to fall away, to recede, slowly, backward, as if he, John, remains still – and everything and everyone else moves away … _telescopic vision,_ he thinks tiredly.

He keeps his eyes closed when Sherlock thumbs his mobile phone, frantically shouts for Dennison! Hurry, for fuck's sake!

He keeps them closed even after the detective gathers him up next to his chest and rocks him like an infant.

And he keeps them closed when he feels the soft brush of warm lips against his forehead, hears the whispered entreaties, the frantic pleas that break his heart.

 _Sherlock sounds - wrong,_ John thinks. _Why? What's happened?_ Christ, if his head would just stop _…I'm so tired, isn't he tired, too? He must be. Both of us… so damn tired…_

John falls away into a cocoon of warmth, of silence. Or, rather, he lies there half on the soft carpet of their bedroom and half in Sherlock's shaking arms – while the entire universe tilts sideways - away from him.

All is still. All is quiet. John can hear his heart beat. Until that sound, too, begins to fade.

 _I love you,_ John thinks. _Always have. Please know that. And please forgive me for - this._

"John!"

OooOooO


	13. Chapter 13

**These characters in their current incarnation belong to the BBC and in their original incarnation, to the estate of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.**

**THE BOYS OF BAKER STREET**

**CH. 13**

**NOTE: This ongoing work is a Trilogy.  This is Book Two.   This work occasionally references events that occurred in Book One:  THERE BUT FOR THE GRACE OF JOHN WATSON. If you have not read that work, you might not "get" some of the references in this story. You might want to stop right here and go read GRACE first, then come back to BOYS.  Otherwise, your reading experience will not have the intensity that I labored so hard to create for you.**

OooOooO

**The second time John Watson dies, he visits Nirvana, confronts a monster, and solves a medical mystery.**

**This is how it happens.**

**OooOooO**

**Four point five Hours Later:**

David Brisco is so-o ready to lock up the place and leave. It has been a very long twelve-hour shift in the lab. Blast Siler for sicking out on him anyway. _Second day in a row, the sod._ Brisco actually has his jacket in his hands and is fumbling for change for the tube when he gets the phone call from HER.

He has her on a special ring on his mobile because – well, just because. She may be the boss's "girl" and may be totally completely out of his league – he's not a complete idiot - but she is still 100% gorgeous, 100% sexy, all long leg and warm breast and damn it, he's a man isn't he? So, yes, _she who he knows only as Callista_ has her own special ring on his mobile. (He knows this is not her real name and he often fantasizes about what her real name can be. Harmless entertainment.)

And he thinks, as he thumbs the button to answer, it's not as if anyone is going to know she has her own ring. It's his little secret.

"Doctor Brisco, we're sending over some blood samples – along with a few other items - by special courier and we would greatly appreciate it if you can have the analysis to us as quickly as possible."

"Um. All right. When can I expect it?" He glances at his watch and mentally says goodbye to a late evening at the pub watching the football and possibly downing a pint with a few chums.

"It should be there within ten minutes or less. Dispatched a while ago. Please ring me as soon as you have the results. This analysis takes priority over anything else you might have going."

He now says goodbye to his dinner, as well. "Um. All right. Happy to help. By the way–"

"Yes, Doctor?" She sounds impatient.

"Can you tell me what it is I'm supposed to be looking for?"

"Anything. And everything. And please hurry . A man's life and sanity is at stake. There are certain – substances - that you will undoubtedly find are present in the samples. You're looking for everything else. It's all in the paperwork."

She hangs up.

He sighs, says goodbye to getting home at any decent hour, to sleeping, to eating, to the game and a pint. Goodbye to all of it.

David Brisco tosses his jacket down, turns all the laboratory lights back on, makes certain the door is unlocked, and waits for the courier to arrive.

Damn it. But it does sound urgent and maybe – who knows? – if he can get this job done and do it quickly and get her the results immediately, just maybe -

You just never know. This may be the time she actually _notices._

Hasn't happened yet. But he's not ready to give up hope.

Brisco starts the coffee maker and tries to ignore his empty stomach. There's always that small bag of crisps – and the damned yoghurt in the fridge, his hold-out stash. If it drags on too long, he'll call for takeout. He looks up at the door as it opens. And sighs.

Around the seventh hour, he grips one of the vials of blood in his gloved hand, holds it up to the light, then picks up one of the syringes, stares at it and frowns. He glances at his various printouts again, then shakes his head.

What the hell?

_The poor sod. The poor stinking sod._

Then he laughs, but it's a humorless sound and he chalks it up to being so bloody tired.

Actually, all things considered, he thinks there must be any number of Uni students who would pay good money to have _this_ shite running through their veins. He shakes his head, prepares his report and emails it to HER.

Then he picks up his phone, hits the button and calls her direct, hoping he has come through in record time and that she might – actually – notice.

You just never know.

She who is neither Callista nor Anthea picks up on the first ring.

OooOooO

John's heartbeat fades quietly away … and he says goodbye, mentally, to the One.

His soul fills with agony, while he falls into a soft, dark oblivion.

Then John Watson begins to plead. He can never remember with Whom – or why.

# # #

John walks down the street, notes that the chestnuts have grown riotously tall and that they now spread their branches and shade over the walks in front of the neat little row of houses.

He whistles as he walks, his hands in his pockets. It's an utterly gorgeous day. _Early summer,_ he thinks. _Nothing like it._ He shoves his fists in his pockets and continues to whistle tunelessly as he makes his solitary way along.

John passes groups of kids, some of them kick a ball around, some of them ride their bicycles, some of them call across the street to each other, "Come have a catch. Hurry before Mum calls us."

None of them pay him any attention.

He smiles at the familiar sounds and at the row of neat little houses he passes. Finally, he stops in front of one house in particular and stares at the peeling white and blue paint, at the small overgrown garden, at the two battered bikes, one pink and one blue, that lie in the yard, obviously tossed down by their owners and temporarily forgotten.

John stares at the house — and something in him, a feeling of foreboding, makes him want to walk on by. But some things just seem to be dictated.

_And rules are rules._

So he sighs, passes through the gate, and makes his way up the path to the front door. At the door, he contemplates the white painted wood for a few seconds, then just – passes - through the door and finds himself in the living area.

John is aware that off to his left and off to his right, is a kitchen, hallway, bedrooms, loo, pantry. He ignores all of it.

John stands and quietly considers the man who sits in the brown chair in front of the telly. The man is a little taller than John, has light brown hair, shot through with a few strands of blonde – and gray. A single brown bottle sits on the floor next to the chair. The man leans over, picks up the bottle, drinks, then sets the bottle back down on the floor.

John frowns. He wants to go away from this place. He does not want to talk to this man. But he cannot leave. _The rules_ – he has to wait.

He doesn't have to wait for long. A young girl, around 13 or so, comes running down the hall, laughing as she runs. She skids to a stop as the man turns his head.

"Where do you think you're runnin' off too?" he demands.

The girl is short, with dark blonde curling hair. She seems frighteningly small as she stands there, her small chest heaves. She brushes her hair out of her eyes and stares down at her feet.

"Just – outside to ride my bike—" she begins.

"Thought I told you to clean up that mess you made earlier," the man takes another swallow of beer, then sets the bottle carefully next to him in the chair. He never takes his eyes off the telly.

John watches the interaction quietly. A feeling of dread snakes through his spine and he wants to scream at the girl, the young Harriet, to run – and hide.

"Come 'er," the man demands.

Young Harry Watson walks quietly up to the man in the chair, her eyes on the carpet. She does not lift her head to look at him.

The man does not touch the young girl – instead, he begins to yell abuse at her.

"What did I tell you bout runnin' off and leaving your poor Mum to handle all this, hmm!"

He looks hard at Harry, who just continues to stare at her feet.

John notes the ancient trainers and the threadbare jeans. He winces. "Run…just get away," he screams in his head.

Neither the man nor young Harry note him. The man continues to holler, to berate.

As John stands there, a boy, younger than Harry but with the same dark blonde hair, badly in need of a haircut, comes down the hallway. He comes to a stop behind the chair the man sits in.

His eyes widen as the man, their father, reaches out to his sister, grabs her by her thin shoulders and begins to shake her small frame.

Young John's eyes widen; his stomach churns. His hands slowly clench into fists by his side. He takes a deep breath and suddenly moves to his sister's defense . He yanks her back out of their drunken father's reach.

"Leave her alone," young John screams. Harry Watson stumbles and falls to her knees. She looks up at her brother – then at their father's face. Her eyes widen and she scrambles backwards, away from the man and the boy.

In his head, John screams at young John and Harry to run – _just run, get out, go – NOW – before he_ –

None of the three pay attention to him. And as he looks on, the man grabs at young John – grabs at his previously broken wrist and begins to twist. There is a sound of a slap. And other sounds.

John turns away, sickened. He is immediately outside the house. He looks around the yard in desperation.

Behind him, he hears young John begin to cry. And hears Harriet begin to plead.

John waits a few heartbeats, then makes his way around the side of the house to one window in particular. He considers it for a moment, then simply walks through the walls and into the small bedroom.

He stands and watches. Harriet Watson kneels by the side of a small bed. Young John lies on the bed, his eyes closed. His breath comes out in small groans. Harry wipes his face with a warm wet cloth, then talks desperately to her brother.

"Come on, Johnny, just wake up, okay? Do it for me. Wake up, Johnny." She continues to do her best with the cloth.

John watches as the boy finally opens his dark blue eyes, turns his head to stare at his sister, who cries quietly, and begins to wonder what has happened to him. He stares at Harriet Watson – and realizes that somehow, some way, he has just accomplished the impossible.

He has "gone away" during one of their father's tirades.

John stares at young John as he comes to grip with this revelation - and at young Harry. Young John continues to watch his sister cry, even as his mind begins to go over possibilities.

As he watches this scene, John frowns.

The scene changes.

John now stands in their small garden. He walks over to a worn bench, sits down, and contemplates the bright blue sky. He stares as butterflies and bees make their jerky way between the struggling blossoms.

He is aware that the man comes out of the side door, stares for a moment, then comes over and sits down heavily next to John.

For some reason, this does not disturb John. He just sits. And waits.

The two sit in silence for a few moments. John does not look at the man. He continues to stare at the insects, particularly the bees. He loves the communal humming sound they make.

He wonders why this simple sound fills him with quiet, expectant joy.

"Just lost my job, did'n I?" The man says in a rough voice. He kicks at the green grass with one foot. John stares at the worn brown leather shoe as it kicks into the grass.

"Didn't know what we were goin' to do. Not much good after I'd had a few. But then, you and your sister know that much." The man continues to kick at the grass. He finally clasps both hands in his lap and stares at the insects and the flowers.

"Not saying any of – _that_ – was okay. It wasn't. Just saying …" his rough voice breaks off.

A beat.

Now John turns his head to study the man next to him. And he realizes, with a small shock, this is not a monster. This is just a man. A tired, broken man.

John understands broken. Not any more, of course. But once ... he understands.

"What you did was wrong - what you did - to both of us - was wrong."

The man flinches but remains silent. Waiting.

John turns his head as a single bee passes in front of his eyes. He follows it's path wonderingly, until he cannot see it anymore.

"But it didn't break me. And now I've got someone - " His voice breaks off. There are some things so precious, so important, that they cannot be shared. Even at times like this. They should remain private ... be hugged to the heart.

In the end, all he says is: "I've got so much more than I ever thought I'd have. And - it's all right," John says. He looks around the garden at the flowers and the insects, the grass that desperately needs to be cut, at the bright blue sky.

He tilts his head all the way back and stares into the deep, deep blue.

"What?" the man turns to John and stares at him. His voice is hesitant, wavering.

"It's all right," John says again. "We made it. Both of us. And we're stronger because of it." John finally turns his head to look into the dark blue eyes of the man who sits next to him.

"I can't speak for Harry, can I?" he says quietly. "But as for me – "

John's voice breaks off and he turns his head to watch the bees again.

Suddenly he smiles. "It's going to be all right. Everything, Dad, everything, is going to be just fine."

The man nods once. Then he just vanishes – his atoms dissolve into nothingness.

John continues to sit. He shuts his eyes and listens to the quiet hum of the bees. For some reason, the sound puts him in mind of ebony curls – and silver eyes.

He slowly becomes aware that the humming sound is now accompanied by a familiar beat, which grows stronger by the second.

John smiles.

OooOooO

Galen Dennison rushes into their room, sees Sherlock as he performs chest compressions on John Watson, glances once at John's face, then bats the detective's hands away from the doctor's chest.

"Mr. Holmes – Sherlock! Stop it! He's breathing – stop now!"

Sherlock looks at Dennison, then down at his hands locked into position on John's chest. He shakes his head. What? Stop? What!

Dennison drops down on the carpet next to John and thumbs a dark blonde eyebrow. John reacts slightly to the touch but he does not open his eyes. Dennison leans over, puts his ear on John's chest, and his fingers encircle the doctor's wrist. Finally, he gently pulls back one eyelid and checks John's pupil reaction. He stares, confused, and not a little perturbed. If he didn't know any better-

Then he nods once, and straightens up.

"Heart rate is slow but it's steady and strengthening. Let's give him a few."

He continues to count beats under his fingers and watch the sweep second hand of his watch. Then he looks at Sherlock and notes the panic in the detective's eyes.

"He's breathing on his own. Heart rate's coming back up. Let's get him into bed and you can tell me what's happened here."

Sherlock pulls John into his arms again, then straightens and stands up with the unconscious body of his partner. Galen hurries to pull the covers back and John is gently placed on the bed. Sherlock moves to remove his boots, while Galen listens to John's heartbeat again, this time with a stethoscope he fishes out of his kit.

"Okay. Slow, but coming along." He straightens, glances at John and frowns.

"Can you give me any idea on how long you think he wasn't breathing? I have to know. Oxygen deprivation can –" He breaks off at the look on Sherlock's face.

"Mr. Holmes – are you all right?"

Sherlock stands at the foot of the bed and stares at John's face.

"He was speaking, mumbling really. Then he just hit the floor. He wasn't breathing. I thought –"

The detective' voice breaks off. _Focus._ He considers for a moment. "Less than a minute really. I called you immediately and didn't notice his heart – stop – for another minute."

He stops again and continues to stare at John.

"It's all right. You did fine. Let's give the man a few more minutes." Galen glances at Sherlock, who appears atypically shaken.

Both men wait and watch John Watson. Galen watches for reactions across John's face as his heart rate becomes stronger, then steadies. He uses the stethoscope again and nods, pleased.

"Can you get that jumper and button-down off him and those jeans - does he have a tee or pajamas or something we can get him into – make him more comfortable?"

Sherlock nods, crosses to their cubby and pulls out John's flannel drawstrings and a cotton tee. Galen stands back, crosses to the small desk and jots down a few quick notes on his pad, while John is carefully undressed, redressed and finally covered with the bed clothes.

During this, John actually murmurs something once, without opening his eyes, and Sherlock has never been so glad to hear a mumbled whisper in his life.

His own heart rate finally settles down. He swipes one hand through his curls and regards the sleeping doctor. He considers Galen as he moves in to check John's heart rate again.

"Did you give John an injection earlier today?"

"Absolutely not. Not after the one he received this morning – not after Maggie – Doctor Oakton gave him the one in the library." He looks at his watch. "And he's not due for one for another six hours from now." He glances at Sherlock. "That is, if we decide to continue on this course of medication."

The two men regard each other in silence for a moment and each pursues his own thoughts.

Dennison shakes his head slightly, then looks keenly up at the detective. "Actually, I was going to ask you if it's at all possible that John, Doctor Watson, has been, let us say, self-medicating?"

Sherlock's eyes narrow at Dennison and he glances from Galen to the medical kit that now sits on the writing desk in the far corner of the room.

"Doctor Dennison, do you want to explain that?"

Dennison regards the tall detective. "I just want to know if it is possible that he has taken – anything – anything at all on his own."

"Not even an aspirin," Sherlock says definitively.

Dennison notices Sherlock glance, again, at his medical kit that sits on the writing desk.

"Mr. Holmes, I am telling you he has not had an injection since early this morning. I still have three of the original hypos left in my bag."

Galen continues to listen to John's heartbeat through his stethoscope.

Sherlock watches his movements carefully. Something rings a bell in his mind.

He shuts his eyes momentarily. _Focus, idiot._

Dennison nods to himself, then covers John with the duvet. He straightens, then goes to open his bag and glances in at the smaller case that's inside it. He moves to hand the case to the detective, who takes it, looks in and hands it back to Dennison.

"Mr. Holmes, I really recommend that John – Doctor Watson be readmitted to hospital so he can be monitored. "

"Not an option." Sherlock says determinedly. "Not yet, at any rate."

He pulls the French chair next to John's bedside, sits down and leans forward, his hands clasped. He regards John's still form for a moment, then looks up at Dennison.

"Our family physician should be here shortly. I want him to examine John and I'll be guided by whatever he recommends concerning John's condition."

He frowns again at John's sleeping face, then sighs. "My brother will be here, as well, but it will be much later this evening. If John needs to go back, we'll get him back quickly. I can have a helicopter here within a short –"

"A helicopter? You mean a Life Flight," Dennison interjects.

Sherlock glances at Dennison. "Not really, but call it what you will. My brother's people will get him where he needs to be as quickly as possible. If he needs to be remanded to a hospital, we can't take the time to drive him there. Right now, he's breathing –"

Sherlock's voice breaks off and again, he wipes a hand through his hair. He considers John, then looks back up at Dennison, who now stands at the foot of their bed. He feels suddenly out of his depth. A common feeling where John Watson is concerned.

"You must know, Doctor Dennison, that the only reason John was removed from St. Anne's, is that Dr. Merit deemed him fit enough to be discharged. And you must also know that we are all – here – because of a direct threat against my family," he looks long and hard at John Watson, "and those who are close to us."

He shakes his dark head. "Bloody hell, we had a plan, and this place was deemed to be as safe – safer than anywhere I can get him to right now. Damn it, the man was attacked while he was IN the bloody hospital and while one of my brother's men stood guard outside the door."

Sherlock looks at Galen. "You can understand why neither one of us, John or myself, are rushing to get him back to that environment. Not until this threat is neutralized."

Dennison frowns, then moves to pull up the chair from the writing desk.

"Mr. Holmes, I know there are a lot of things that have occurred – and that are going on now – that you and your brother feel I do not need to know. I accept that." His voice is quiet as he considers the sleeping man in the bed for a moment.

"The plan was, as I understand it from Mags – Doctor Oakton – to bring Doctor Watson here, where he can be guarded twenty-four hours a day by your brother's men, where he can continue his recuperation from his recent maltreatment and get started on the treatment for his – addiction."

Dennison sweeps his hand at his medical case. "That is why Doctor Oakton and I worked on his course of treatment and counseling sessions together. We are slowly attempting to move John away from the horrid responses he has had to Franks' drug to another –"

"Yes," Sherlock interrupts. He looks at Dennison again. Something rings a small bell in his brain. Something that Denison has done – just now – just a moment ago, really – as well as the first day he arrived here. _Hell, was that only three days back?_

Sherlock regards Galen Dennison, frowns, then turns to look at John's quiet form.

_Why can't he think? Have his mental processes all been shot to hell because of this damn mess? Is he doomed to be mentally – dense – around John the rest of their lives together?_

He thinks back quickly to the night they left St. Anne's Hospital … to John's attack in the van, the exploding car, Donovan's death. His eyes narrow and he stares at John.

Something – he's missed something, something basic. But what in bloody hell **_Is_** it?

Suddenly, Sherlock looks up at Galen. "Please stay with John." He crosses to the door, then glances back. "I need to have a little talk with Doctor Oakton."

OooOooO

Agent Roaman stands at the countertop in the kitchen and pours himself a cup of coffee. It's going to be a long night.

Enders comes in. Roaman looks up and raises an eyebrow.

Enders just sighs. "Just got the call. Two trucks' on their way. Should be here shortly. We need to get through these two fast. I'm knackered and have to get some sleep soon. Jake is already out."

Roaman nods, picks up his steaming cup and regards Enders. "Food service? Laundry? Not the cleaning crew?"

Enders sighs again and just looks at him. "Food and Laundry. Cleaners will be back in the morning, early."

"Bloody hell," Roaman says.

Enders just nods. "I'll go with. Each of us can take one truck, get them all started. I'll take Food. That'll be fastest. In and out. You take Laundry – just get them out of here quickly. That leaves the cleaning crew in the morning. Lynn and Williams can take that one. It took a full eight hours to go through this place the first time and between us, we're not using even half the damned space here, less than that even. Williams is still outside Oakton's door, right?

Roaman nods. "Waste of resources. She's not going anywhere soon."

Enders nods, swipes a hand through his short hair. "I don't see her as a viable threat either, but we won't know for certain until Dennison – or someone – can figure out what the hell happened to Watson this morning." He glances out the window at the late afternoon light. If they could just get a break from this sodding cold.

He thinks for a moment, then turns to Roaman. "She called earlier. Mr. Holmes is coming out here later this evening. I think he wants to have a _word_ with Oakton."

Dead silence. Roaman raises an eyebrow. _Bloody hell._ He wonders if they need to set aside a room, one that can be monitored and locked, just in case. He looks at Enders. Both men think the same thing.

Roaman hoists his mug, takes a sip of coffee, and sets it down in the sink. "All right. Let's go."

As the men turn to leave the kitchen, Enders says, "Make certain you check with Holmes first before anyone goes up there, all right? Dennison is in there now with both of them. I think Watson brought their clothes down earlier this morning and dropped them in the laundry room. Not certain about his suits. You may have to collect those, when you bring up the fresh ones."

Roaman just nods and follows him out of the kitchen. As both agents walk toward the side entrance, they thumb through their mobiles at the photos of both the food service and laundry personnel's files, reacquainting themselves with the digital photographs of the workers involved.

Roaman sighs. _So Holmes will be here shortly. That makes for an interesting evening for all concerned_.

OooOooO

Maggie Oakton sits at the desk in her room and goes through her notes. This is the twentieth time she has done so. She shakes her head. None of this makes any sense.

The door opens – and Sherlock Holmes comes into the room. Behind him, one of Mycroft's men stares in at her, then stands back as Holmes nods at the man, and shuts the door quietly behind him.

Holmes crosses the carpet and comes to stand in front of Oakton. He glances at the pad of writing in front of her, then looks into her deep green eyes.

"Where is it, Doctor Oakton?" he demands quietly.

Maggie frowns. "Mr. Holmes – what –"

"The case with the hypos – the shots you gave me the night we left St. Anne's. It had four shots in it. I used one on John in the van. That left three."

He keeps his hands by his side and just watches her reaction. She frowns, thinks.

"Mr. Holmes – you never gave the case back to me." She looks up into his near crystalline gaze. "And it never occurred to me to ask you for it. Once Galen arrived, which was the first day, he changed John's – Doctor Watson's medication immediately."

She looks at him and her heart pounds in her chest. "It just never occurred to me to ask for it back. Until now."

Sherlock considers her for a moment and thinks. Finally, he nods and pulls out his mobile, types quickly and hits Send. He drops the mobile back into his pocket, looks at her curiously, then crosses to the door. He opens the door and stands there to wait.

Maggie watches him. She sits and waits too.

OooOooO

Mycroft moves away from Greg Lestrade while the D.I. speaks hurriedly over his mobile. He glances around, spots the single figure that sits more or less in the exact middle of one row. The military haircut marks him as a possible former chum of John's. His Blackberry buzzes in his pocket and he has it out and in his hand in one practiced move.

"Yes, my Dear?"

"The man arrested earlier for the car bombing? Yanni?"

"Yes?" He continues to glance around the hall, notes that Lestrade has finished his phone call and waits, impatiently, to have a word.

"We won't need to put him through the process. He's singing like a bird, to coin a phrase," she says dryly.

"So soon? Excellent. Anything we can use?"

He hears her hesitate. Then, "Possibly. He met with two men, always the same two, who gave him his orders, but only has ever heard one name. Undoubtedly an alias. He did give descriptions of both, however. And something else extremely interesting."

"Tell me," Mycroft says quietly. At the same time, he gestures to Lestrade. The DI nods at him and begins to make his way through the crowd, which has deepened. More people than either one of them expected have made their way to the service for the former Army Captain, Mycroft notes.

She talks. Mycroft raises one eyebrow. A cold regard begins to worm its way through his brain. There can only be one individual who – corresponds – to one of the descriptions she relays _. British Lord be damned. He will personally kill the sod if it turns out –_

"Understood. My dear, you have, as always, been invaluable. I'll call you shortly."

He hangs up, drops the phone into his trousers pocket and turns to the DI as he comes up to his side.

"Mycroft, that man in the middle of the pew on the right –" murmurs Lestrade.

Mycroft notes it is the same individual he noticed earlier. He nods.

"Something?" he says quietly to Greg.

"Nothing specific. Just – hell, cop's intuition. I'm keeping an eye. He didn't give me his name. But the bells rang. I've had to cut loose two of my people to make calls but I know you've the available manpower to –"

"All right. I'll ask one of my men to 'chat him up' and see where it leads."

Mycroft holds great respect for the DI and anything the former military man feels is off deserves a second look.

He looks at Lestrade, notes more gray in the dark strands than he saw the last time they spoke and sighs. It goes with the territory and he wonders for the hundredth time why he isn't as grey-haired as the DI.

"Detective Inspector –"

Greg looks up at Mycroft and raises an eyebrow.

"The man your people arrested for Sgt. Donovan's death –" Mycroft breaks off when he sees the ill-concealed fury in Lestrade's gaze. But Greg just nods at him to continue.

"This Yanni individual, your people have already questioned him, although it turns out not much in the way of 'formal' interrogation was needed. He is speaking out readily enough."

Greg sighs. There is absolutely no use asking how Mycroft knows these details when he himself has not even spoken to his own people in the last hour, not since the arrest.

"Apparently, he was the male nurse seen in the recordings of Doctor Watson's – torment – under Moriarty's hands. He was down there in the Wellington, working alongside Lori Hansen."

Greg stares at Mycroft, his eyes wide. "Holy Hell."

Mycroft Holmes just nods. "Exactly. As it turns out, Ms. Hansen's testimony will be invaluable in this instance. And something else –"

He glances at one of his men, gestures imperceptibly to the long figure who still sits alone in the middle pew. His man nods, makes his way slowly through the crowd toward the man with the military haircut and unseasonable tan.

Mycroft looks back at Greg. "I or some of my people will need to speak with Ms. Hansen, possibly this evening. And the nature of the conversation will necessitate our informing her that John – Doctor Watson - has not died but rather, is alive and being held at a safe house location."

"Not necessary," Lestrade says quietly. "She saw Sherlock that night that Sgt. Donovan was killed and did not believe the news stories the next morning that reported Watson's death. She told Joe – Joe Rodriguez, one of my men and her fiancée - as much. She knows Watson's not dead."

Mycroft considers this information in silence. He doesn't like not knowing every single aspect of a situation and this particular bit is news to him.

He frowns. "As it turns out, we also have two members of your perpetrator's family to put in protective custody, as well, as he insists they were being threatened."

Greg nods at Mycroft sympathetically. Seems like the troubles associated with this arrest will be shared between the two men and their respective organizations.

Somehow, it doesn't give the D.I. a warm and fuzzy feeling.

He glances toward the front of the hall. "Looks like we're beginning." Both men stand and watch as an individual dressed in the uniform of John's former regiment makes his way to the front of the hall.

Greg looks at Mycroft, who shakes his head. "We kept this as hush hush as possible, but of course, some of it leaked out." He sighs, aggrieved. "When this is all over, John is going to be - perturbed - "

"To say the least," Greg nods sympathetically. He wonders, again, just exactly what Mycroft hopes to accomplish with this farce. _They have the bastard responsible for Sally's death in custody and_ – Greg's thoughts break off. He is looking forward to a very long conversation with that sod and quite soon.

"Photographs," Mycroft says quietly while both men turn to walk toward a pew and take their seats, as the veteran begins to speak. Lestrade wonders if telepathy runs in the Holmes family as Mycroft has neatly answered his thought before he voiced it. _Same as Sherlock often does,_ he muses. He wonders how the detective - and the Army doctor - are doing.

Greg frowns at the thought. Out loud all he says is, "Photographs?"

Mycroft looks wryly at Greg Lestrade. "What did you expect, Inspector? A Wild West shootout? Mass arrests? Every single individual who has come through the front door of this hall has been photographed. Our facial recognition experts are going through the photos as we speak."

Greg Lestrade looks at Mycroft Holmes and shakes his head. "What do you hope to accomplish ? I thought most of that software was considered a failure, particularly after the London Borough of Newham studies—"

"Greg," Mycroft glances down at the DI, "we have taken that technology a great deal farther, I can assure you. Besides," here he looks around at the gathering again, "we have rather extensive files on current terror cabals operating within the British Isles. It will be interesting to see what the software and our experts turn up."

The D.I. nods, then glances toward two of his men who stand off to his side. They make eye contact and Greg softly nods in the direction of the military-type who still sits – more or less – alone three seats in front of him and Mycroft. He can see that Mycroft's agent has seated himself a few spaces down from the man.

He doesn't know what about this individual bothers him, just that something does. Their encounter was brief, but the D.I. sits there and tries to think of who the man reminds him of - his thoughts break off and his eyes widen when he realizes why the man and his movements, even his general appearance, seems familiar.

_Holy buggering Hell…is it possible? And so soon? Can they possibly have Sebastian Moran's successor on their hands? Or has he finally gone round the twist?_

But Lestrade says nothing as the first speaker now stands at the podium, next to the enlarged photograph of John Watson.

"We are all here today to pay our final respects to a good man, a decent man, an extraordinary man, Capt. John H. Watson, known to many of you as Doctor John Watson. As we continue, I ask anyone who cares to speak to please come up and say a few words –"

The speaker continues to drone on. As he speaks, Mycroft and Lestrade glance around the room. Then Mycroft's attention is caught by a single profile, a man with dark hair and receding hairline, immaculately dressed, who has taken a seat across the aisle and one aisle up from where he and Lestrade sit.

Mycroft studies the profile, then raises one eyebrow. Quietly he fishes his Blackberry out of his pocket and begins to text.

Behind him, one of his man glances at the screen of his mobile, nods, then quietly rises and makes his way past Mycroft – and sits down one aisle back of the individual in question.

Mycroft nods. Most excellent.

The speaker continues to laud Doctor Watson's attributes both as a Captain in the RAMC and an Army doctor, including his recent service in Afghanistan.

Lestrade sighs. He itches to get out of there and confront Sally's killer. He rubs a hand over his eyes. God, he can't remember the last time he slept. Actually, yes he can. It was three nights ago, before the world got shot to hell.

_And tomorrow, I get to do this all over again. Only this time, it will be for real._

Beside him, Mycroft Holmes seemingly pays attention to the speakers, all the while watching a certain individual out of the corner of his eye.

The two men, the former military man and Detective Inspector of New Scotland Yard, and he who is, basically, the British Government, sit in companionable silence, each consumed with his own disturbing thoughts.

OooOooO

Lori Hansen knows her man. And something did not add up.

Hence ** _,_** _three days earlier,_ when news of Doctor John H. Watson's death first makes the late morning news feeds, she at first goes into a minor state of shock. When the news first comes on, she and Joe sit at their kitchen table and talk while Joe finishes his morning coffee, preparatory to reporting for his morning shift at the Yard.

She has spent most of the early morning, crying over Sally Donovan's death. She raises her head at the name "Doctor John Watson," listens to the story incredulously.

It's too much. She cannot assimilate it. Lori's eyes widen in shock, then before Joe can say anything, she runs from the room and loses her breakfast in the toilet. She grabs at fistfuls of tissues, then throws herself on their bed and starts to cry her heart out.

 _"I failed,"_ she thinks quietly, as her breath hitches against the sobs that tear through her small chest. _"Failed. I tried. And for_ _what? He saved my life – and he's gone. And now, Mr. Holmes is injured and alone –"_

She begins to sob quietly again, tearing tissue after tissue from the box.

_It isn't fair. It just isn't fair. First Sally, now this._

Dimly, she hears Joe's mobile phone ring. She hears murmurs of a quiet conversation. Then Joe comes into their bedroom and sits down on the edge of the mattress. She sits up and he pulls her into his chest and begins to rub her back quietly.

"Sweetheart –" he says.

"Don't, Joe," she manages to sob, though her chest hitches. "Just don't. There's nothing you can say that will help this."

Joe nods and stares over her head at the wallpaper.

Her breath hitches. "First Sal—Sally. And now Doctor Watson. I can't – Joe, it just isn't fair."

Joe nods. "No, it's not. I'm sorry. I know you and Doctor Watson had a connection."

His voice is quiet, matter of fact. At the nearly dry tone, Lori frowns through her tears.

Lori never knows quite what it is that makes her lean back and stare into her intended's quiet eyes. Maybe it's the deadpan tone of voice. Maybe it's the fact that Joe does not seem too upset at the news of Doctor Watson's death.

Or maybe it's just that Lori Hansen knows her man.

She stares into Joe's dark brown gaze. And narrows her eyes.

"Joe Rodriguez – what in bloody hell is going on?"

He stares back at her, confused. _Holy hell, he keeps forgetting that this diminutive woman he loves is also an Army 'brat' – and one hell of a formidable person in her own right._

"Ah, nothing is going on. I don't know what you –"

She stares at him. Then blows her nose and clears her thoughts. Her mind races.

 _Wait. Just wait. Mr. Holmes was there, right there,_ she saw him there by the side of the car just a few hours earlier. She clearly saw him through the window as he walked by in the dark. He saw her as she sat there huddled in the blanket - and he nodded for her to stay put in the car.

_And if Mr. Holmes was there, then that meant that Doctor Watson …_

Lori stares at Joe Rodriguez.

"Joe, you have one minute to explain what the bloody hell is going on before I deck you."

Rodriguez stares into his love's eyes and gives it up as a lost cause. He has no experience in lying, particularly to the woman in his arms, the woman who currently looks at him as if she will take him apart any second now.

He clears his voice, mentally apologizes to the D.I. and begins to speak.

Lori's eyes widen.

That was three mornings ago. Now she sits at their kitchen table and watches the news feeds. And waits for her mobile to ring. She crosses her fingers that the D.I.'s people will be able to find the stinking sods who are responsible for Sally Donovan's death.

She wonders how Doctor Watson's "memorial" service is going.

And not for the first time, wishes that she could be of help to the quiet doctor who saved her life back there – at the risk of his own - in the lower levels of the Wellington.

Lori looks up as she hears her text chime ring. Where? Oh yes. In the pocket of her purse. She pulls her purse to her by one strap and fishes out her mobile.

And stares at the words on the small screen.

OooOooO

"Excuse me, Detective Inspector." Lestrade nods as Mycroft rises, and quietly makes his way across the short aisle. He seats himself next to the man in the expensive Italian suit. He is aware that his agent sits more or less directly behind them.

Mycroft and his companion sit together for a few moments, as the second speaker takes the podium to recite praises to John Watson.

Mycroft never even turns his head as he speaks. "Awfully good of you, Bennett, to pay your respects in person this way."

The man just nods, then turns slightly to glance at Mycroft. "Always willing to acknowledge a decorated member of our Armed forces," he says quietly. But his hands begin to fidget in his lap.

Mycroft listens to the speaker for a moment. Then turns to contemplate the man sitting next to him.

"But I have to wonder, Bennett, what brings a member of the House of Lords out to a gathering such as this. And please don't tell me you attend the memorials for all our fallen young heroes. That would be incredibly meretricious of you."

The other man's voice is quiet. "I do not believe I have to explain my actions to you, Mycroft." He turns to look Mycroft in the eye. "Now or at any other time."

He returns his attention to the speaker in front of the room. "Besides, I might say the same thing about you. What brings Mycroft Holmes to this rather sad little service?

"Curiosity, mainly," Mycroft says. His tone is one of an aggrieved, put upon civil servant. He sighs, crosses one leg over the other and brushes an invisible bit of lint off his trouser leg. "You know how these things go. Someone – higher up – always wants to be certain we make a good show." He clears his throat. "Even if the little sod was just a stinking' little pansy."

Dead silence. Mycroft's companion stares at the speaker, who is now extolling Capt. John Watson's many brave acts. He clears his throat.

"Yes, I had heard that about the former Captain." He sighs. "But I'm rather surprised, Mycroft, to hear how little regard you have for the man who, as I understand it, was to become your future brother-in-law."

There is a pause. And then Mycroft Holmes smiles a slow deliberate smile. The smile does not reach his eyes. He turns to consider the man next to him. Bug under a microscope.

"And tell me, Lord Crandall, just exactly how you came by this news? As far as I and Mummy are aware, only one individual outside our immediate family is in possession of that information."

Lord Crandall frowns. His hands stop fidgeting in his lap. And he turns his head to look into Mycroft Holmes's dark steel eyes.

Behind him, Mycroft's man pulls out his mobile, sends a text, than drops his phone into his pocket.

The agent who stands at the door to the hall pulls out his phone, glances at the screen, nods, and then maneuvers around quietly to sit directly to the left of Lord Bennett Crandall.

"Bennett, we can do this the easy way," Mycroft speaks quietly to his companion, who continues to look straight ahead, "or we can do this the hard way. Your call."

Lord Bennett Crandall becomes very still. He turns his head to stare at Mycroft, who stares coldly back at him.

OooOooO

Agent Enders finishes with the Food Service people and sees the truck and its occupants on their way. His text chime sounds. He reads the screen, then hastens to meet Sherlock at Doctor Oakton's room.

When he arrives, Sherlock stands in the doorway, in quiet conversation with Williams.

He nods at Williams, then gestures for Enders to come into the room.

Enders stands inside the door while Holmes shuts it, then turns to contemplate Doctor Oakton.

"Agent Enders, do you recall the case full of hypos that I handed you the night we left St. Anne's – the night Doctor Watson had his attack in the van?"

Enders just nods. He glances at Oakton, then puts his attention on Holmes.

"Yes sir, of course. When we arrived that night, I kept the case in my possession. I gave it to Doctor Dennison the next afternoon as I understood that he would be the one to be in charge of Doctor Watson's medications."

Sherlock thinks for a few seconds. "All right. Thank you. You can go. I imagine you are exhausted."

"Thank you, sir. Good night." Enders nods at Holmes, considers Oakton curiously for a moment, then leaves. He shuts the door quietly behind him.

Outside the room, he and Williams exchange brief looks. Then Enders makes his way down the hall.

Sherlock stands in thought for a moment. Then he looks up at Maggie Oakton.

"Our family physician will be here shortly," he says curtly. "I imagine he will have a few questions for you, Doctor Oakton. I advise you to be forthcoming with the answers."

"Mr. Holmes –" Maggie breaks off when she sees the stormy look in his eyes. She ducks her head. "Of course. I'll answer any questions he may have."

Sherlock nods once, opens the door and leaves. Behind him, Agent Williams pulls the door closed. Then takes up his position outside once more.

Sherlock makes his way quickly back to their own room, one hallway over.

OooOooO

John Watson struggles back to consciousness. But he just can't open his eyes.

He is exhausted, weary beyond belief. He feels as if he has run a race. And lost.

He can hear quiet sounds around him. He believes he hears the voice of the One. But he's not certain. His thoughts drift off. And come back again.

He has no idea what has happened to him. John just knows his head hurts and he wishes he could wake up and that someone would give him some cold water to drink.

_Bloody hell, but he's thirsty._

OooOooO

Sherlock opens the door to their room and glances around. Galen Dennison sits at the writing desk in the far corner, by the window, a pad and pen in front of him. He looks up from his notes at the detective as he comes into the room.

Sherlock looks at Dennison as if he is a curious specimen under his microscope.

"Doctor Dennison, I believe Agent Enders gave you a case of hypos the afternoon you arrived here." His voice begs the question.

Dennison looks at Sherlock. And simply nods. "Yes, he did. I understood the shots to be those that Maggie – and Doctor Merit - had prepared for Doctor Watson the night you left St. Anne's. Maggie told me that you had to use one on John – Doctor Watson that night during the trip here. I have them in safekeeping in my room."

He looks steadily at the detective. "Did you need to see them, Mr. Holmes?"

Sherlock frowns at the doctor's ingenuous answer. This reply is not exactly what he expected. He stares at Dennison for a moment, then crosses over to look down at John Watson's tired face. John's hands lay outside the covers. They twitch slightly as he sleeps. The detective considers the unconscious man, then looks back at Dennison, his thoughts unclear.

Before Sherlock can say a word, the door opens behind him.

"Sherlock, good to see you lad."

Both men glance around at the older, white-haired man who stands in the doorway. He smiles genially at them both, walks all the way in to the room and comes to stand over John Watson's bed. He looks down at the unconscious man.

"Now then, what's all this?" he asks.

OooOooO

Lori reads the text on her screen. And her heart soars. She hurriedly types a reply, then rushes into their shared bedroom, locates a suitcase in Joe's closet, and begins to throw her clothes and personal products into it as quickly as possible.

Once she's done, she goes into the bathroom, showers and changes into fresh clothes, then comes back out, sets the suitcase by the front door, and sits down with her mobile to call Joe.

He answers on the second ring.

OooOooO

Doctor Thomas Fields sets his rather large medical case down on the floor next to the bed. He nods at Galen Dennison, then shakes the psychiatrist's hand as Sherlock makes the introduction.

He nods at Sherlock. Fields does not shake the detective's hand, but instead looks him up and down in what Dennison thinks is a rather engaging manner. Fields cocks an eyebrow at the younger Holmes.

"Grown a bit since the last time I saw you," he remarks dryly. Then he turns his attention to John Watson.

Sherlock says nothing. He just stands, hands in pockets, and watches Dr. Fields as he removes a pair of glasses from his shirt pocket, dons them, then bends over John and takes his wrist in his strong fingers.

Sherlock fills him in on John's condition and all the while Doctor Fields just listens and nods his head at the information. Mycroft has already told him all of this but if it makes Sherlock happy, he's willing to listen to it all over again.

Fields opens his case, removes his stethoscope and bends over John's quiet form. He listens for a few minutes, moves the instrument around John's chest. Then he loops the stethoscope around his neck and peels back the bed covers. He lifts the cotton tee shirt, examines the tape and padding around John's ribs, and pokes gently at John's rib area with a practiced fingertip. Finally, he wraps both hands around John's rib area and oh-so-gently palpitates, feeling for the healing breaks with his fingers.

Satisfied, he pulls the tee shirt back down to cover John's chest.

Finally, Thomas Fields gently peels back one of John's eyelids and stares at the pupil reaction. He lets it go and repeats the action with John's other eye. He looks up at Sherlock, then glances across the room to where Galen Dennison sits at the desk. Both doctors stare at each other – and nod.

Fields sighs. He lets John's eye close, then sits down in the chair next to the bed. He regards the Detective who stands next to the bed.

"Higher than a kite," Fields says quietly.

Sherlock looks at Fields and his eyes widen. "What the hell—"

Dr. Fields leans back, removes his glasses and rubs his eyes tiredly. "Sherlock, I've seen enough of this crap to last a lifetime." He slips his glasses back on, then regards the detective with forbearance.

"I have no idea, yet, what else is present in this man's bloodstream, but I assure you, at least some of whatever it is appears to be hallucinogenic. This man is flying."

He glances at John's quiet face again and shakes his head. "Given the fact that he is currently on medication to fight his addiction to whatever this substance was that you told me of – well, I'm astonished his heart didn't stop."

Sherlock looks from Dr. Fields' tired face to John Watson's familiar one. The detective's gaze meets Galen Dennison's' across the room.

"You knew," he said quietly.

Dennison shakes his head. "I suspected. When you said your family physician was on his way, well, I wanted to wait to get a second opinion."

Sherlock looks from one man to the other, then back to John's face.

A cold fury takes possession of his limbs and heart and mind. He forces himself to look away from John's face to the older physician’s friendly visage.

"Any ideas on how it was administered?"

Fields thinks for a moment, then shakes his head. "Injection is the obvious answer." He looks up at Sherlock, then frowns. "But you appear to have ruled that out, right?"

Sherlock just looks back at Fields. Something niggles at his memory – again.

"Well, let's find out, shall we?" Fields says. The doctor moves to open his medical bag again. He removes a hypodermic, an IV port, several syringes and alcohol swabs. He lays all of this out on the bed next to John's quiet form. Fields glances up at Sherlock, who just raises an eyebrow. Fields regards the detective with a steady gaze.

"I've got one of your brother's people waiting outside to courier these over to a lab in the city. I was pretty certain we'd need blood analyses done. "

He looks down at John's face. "We need to find out what's going on with this young man. And quickly."

And this is when John Watson finally wakes up. He opens his eyes in time to see Doctor Thomas Fields' steady hand, which currently holds a hypodermic and an IV port, as it crosses his range of vision.

"So that's how they're doing it," he thinks with sudden clarity.

John looks at the Doctor, who notes his patient is now awake. Fields raises one eyebrow. And looks right back at him with a friendly gaze. John notices that this man has comforting brown eyes. He does not know who this person is, but he trusts him immediately.

John next becomes aware that he is alive. Awake. Aware. And in the world once more.

And most importantly, Sherlock comes into his range of view almost immediately.

Excellent. He has been having the most horrid nightmare. Thank God, it was just that – a bad dream.

Doctor Fields smiles at him.

"Hello there, John," he says quietly. "Now just lie still, there's a good lad. Just taking a blood sample or two. Won't be a moment."

He bends over John's arm. As the hypo pierces his skin, John turns his head to meet Sherlock's steady gaze. He looks at Sherlock. And mentally sighs. Apparently, he has not yet regained the power of speech. By the telepathy they both seem to share, John tries to wordlessly communicate with his partner.

 _For god's sakes, Sherlock, wake up,_ he stares. _We've both been idiots._

Sherlock stares back at John, instantly furious at the doctor for – nearly – leaving him again.

Then he really, REALLY looks into his Army doctor's eyes.

Sherlock looks from John's steady blue gaze, to the hypo in Doctor Fields' hands, then back to John.

Sherlock's eyes widen, then narrow.

And he curses himself for being ten times a fool.

He nods once at John, "Got it, John," he says quietly. John sighs and shuts his eyes again.

Sherlock looks at Galen Dennison, then at the back of Thomas Fields' head.

"Doctor Fields – Doctor Dennison, I'll be right back." At the door, he turns to fix both men with his determined crystalline stare. "Don't leave this room, either of you," he admonishes. "And Doctor Fields, hold that courier."

Sherlock rushes out of the room, past Mycroft's new agent/courier, who stares at him. As he reaches the hallway end, Sherlock begins to run.

Doctor Fields shakes his head at the young man's sudden exit, then straightens with the blood samples, labels them carefully in a steady hand, places them in a small plastic case, then opens the door to hand them to the man who stands outside in the hallway.

"Please wait. We might have something else for you, as well."

Mycroft's man nods, accepts the case, then goes back texting one of his fellow agents.

OooOooO

Sherlock nods at Agent Williams outside Maggie Oakton's door. He taps at the door to her room and at her quiet "Come in," opens her door. He notes that she is dressed for bed, in night clothes, robe and slippers. She sits at the writing desk again, apparently going over the notes she made earlier.

"Where are they, Doctor Oakton?"

Maggie's eyes widen. "Mr. Holmes, we've been over this—" she says tiredly.

He shakes his head. "No. Not the hypos from St. Anne's." He crosses to stand in front of her and looks down at the psychologist. She tilts her head back and looks up at him with a frown on her face.

"The hypodermics, Doctor Oakton. The hypos you and Dennison have been using to inject John, the hypos you filled with the contents of the vials of medication. Where are they?" he demands.

Maggie looks at him as if he has lost his mind. Then her eyes widen. And she groans out loud.

"Good Lord," she murmurs. "Every single one of us has been thick."

She stands, crosses to the French louvered doors, opens them, then reaches in for a cardboard box. She brings the box out and hands it to Sherlock.

Sherlock places the box on the bed, lifts the flaps, glances inside, then lifts out a single smaller box full of unopened packages of hypodermic needles. He looks at it with a frown.

Maggie crosses to stand next to Sherlock. "Be careful," she says quietly. "If you're right, if this is how it's being done, you'll need gloves."

She goes back to the cubby, extracts a box of latex examination gloves, pulls out a pair and hands them to the detective.

Sherlock looks at her quickly, nods once, then sets the box down. He snaps on the gloves, then reaches back into the cardboard box and pulls out a single small plastic bag. He stares at it and raises one eyebrow. The bag has been opened at one end and there are one or two hypos missing. He places the open bag back in the box. He withdraws another bag of hypos, this one full. And sealed.

Both of them stare at the bag. One end appears to be somewhat flattened. Sealed but flat where the other end is rounded.

Sherlock looks down at Oakton as she looks at the small plastic bag in his hand. She looks sick to her stomach.

"Where did you get these?" he asks.

Maggie tells him.

Sherlock nods. It's what he expected. He places the unopened bag of hypos back in the box, places the smaller box inside the larger one, carries it toward the door, then hesitates. He looks at Maggie Oakton and comes to an instant decision.

"Doctor Oakton, I need you to accompany me to our room. Our family physician is here to attend to Doctor Watson. And I want you on hand to answer any questions he might have."

Maggie's eyes widen. She looks at Sherlock, then nods once.

"May I change first?' she says quietly.

The detective considers her, then nods curtly. "Please hurry," he says.

She crosses to the small bathroom.

OooOooO

Mycroft pays a visit to the Diogenes Club, one hour before he is slated to make the long drive to the Manor house. His mood is grim.

He takes his accustomed seat in The Stranger's Room, the one room that allows speech, places his briefcase carefully on the floor next to him, then nods at the attendant, who brings him his usual single malt in a cut crystal glass. While Mycroft sits, he fingers a small white box. It sports a tiny blue bow, obviously a gift box. Finally, he sets it on the table next to him, picks his drink up again, and waits.

He sits and sips his Scotch and stares at the empty chair opposite him.

A few minutes later, another man seats himself in the empty chair, nods at the attendant.

Mycroft waits until his companion has his own drink. The two men sit in easy silence for a moment.

Mycroft considers the man in front of him, then pulls a file folder from the briefcase at his feet, hands it to the other man, who raises one eyebrow, leans forward to take it from Mycroft. He sets his own drink down, then opens the folder Mycroft has just handed him.

He reads the single sheet, considers it for a moment, then closes the folder and sits there with it in his hands. Finally, he hands the folder back to Mycroft, who takes it and drops it in his briefcase. He takes up his drink again and takes a healthy swallow. He looks back at Mycroft, then sighs.

"I take it the little coward was, shall we say "apprehended" by your people?" he says dryly.

Mycroft considers the man opposite him. "Actually, Reggie, it was Detective Inspector Lestrade's people who made the arrest."

"Of course." Reggie holds his glass up to the light, swirls the liquid around in the cut crystal, admires the way the dark gold hues reflect back the light.

"And where do we go from here?" he asks quietly.

"You tell me," Mycroft says. He sets his own drink down, hesitates, then picks up the tiny white box that sits next to his elbow. He peruses the tiny box with its blue bow, then raises his eyes to Reggie, who watches him with what Mycroft would swear is quiet amusement.

"Mycroft, this was never about the 'gay' question and 100% about the Holmes boys. You do know that, right?"

"It did occur to me that, yes, the obvious scenario was the wrong one." Mycroft looks from the tiny white box in his hand to his companion's steady gaze. "A blind. All a blind. And a bloody damned good one too, Reggie. I commend you on that."

He continues to fiddle with the tiny box.

Both men stare at the white box in Mycroft's long fingers. Reggie sighs. He puts his glass down, then leans back slightly and places both his arms along the chair rests.

"You realize, Mycroft, I could fight this. A British Lord fighting in the courts to bring down the mad Holmes boys – particularly the one daft one who more or less runs –"

"No, Reggie, I don't think so," Mycroft murmurs. He looks up from the box in his hands at his companion. "At least, you might have done." Here Mycroft looks the other man in the eyes and his glance is pure cold steel. "But you see, Reg, you tried to kill my little brother. And I – and Mummy – take a dim view of anyone who tries to harm Sherlock."

Reggie stares back at Mycroft. A frisson of tension ices his spine.

Mycroft ignores the stare and goes on. "And the 'daft' Holmes' boys, as you put it, at least the one sitting in this chair, are old friends of this monarchy. Our father has not been forgotten by the current regime. And as for Mummy and her Majesty," he glances at Reggie, then sits back tiredly, fingers the tiny box in his palm. "Let's just say you haven't got a prayer. You'll just embarrass yourself, embarrass Dorothea, drag your entire family through the muck —"

"All right. You don't have to paint a bloody picture." Reggie runs one finger around the rim of his glass. He looks thoughtful for a moment. Then he looks across at Mycroft.

"You don't really expect me to name names do you? Because I can promise you, old man, that –"

"No. Reggie. That's not what I expect you to do. We pretty well know who put you up to this. Although I can assure you, that if names were what we wanted, I can get those."

He turns the tiny white box over and over in his fingers. Finally, he leans forward and places the small box on the table next to Reggie's right arm.

Both men look at it for a moment. Then Reggie sighs and picks up his glass again.

He looks at Mycroft steadily. "No crossed swords? No dueling pistols at sunrise? You disappoint me, Mycroft."

"Nothing so exciting, I'm afraid." Mycroft nods at the box, then toys with his own glass. "I could take you right here. Have you escorted out and have my people lend a hand. But I have too much respect for Dorothea."

He looks carefully at the other man. "And for the Diogenes, as well. I believe it's been 37 years since the last arrest was made under this roof. It isn't on, Reg. It just isn't."

Reggie looks at Mycroft, then comes to a decision. He nods once, tiredly. "All right."

He picks up the tiny box, removes the lid, stares at the contents. On a small pad of white cotton, there resides one miniscule sugar cube, slightly darkened. He looks up at Mycroft.

"Hardly original, old man." His voice is quiet but still sounds disappointed in the staid atmosphere of the Diogenes.

"Apologies. But this is really the best way. Least amount of trouble to all concerned and –" Mycroft looks him in the eyes, "least amount of bother to you. A moment or two of - let us say _discomfort_ \- and Dorothea's future – and that of your two children – is assured. I believe your eldest is at Cambridge, right?"

Reggie nods. He takes the tiny sugar cube in his fingers, glances at it, then carefully drops it in his glass. The amber liquid foams up for a second, then settles back down. He puts the lid back on the box, hands it back to Mycroft, who nods, takes the box, and drops it in his briefcase. The entire interaction has taken less then a few seconds and none of the other men seated in that particular room of the Diogenes has noted a thing.

Mycroft and Reggie consider the glass for a moment.

"I am assured that the discomfort is extremely temporary and passes off quickly," Mycroft murmurs. He takes up his own glass, glances at the contents, then finishes it in one gulp.

Reggie picks up his glass, swirls it round and round, holds it up to the light one last time, nods once at Mycroft, who does not nod back, then downs the remainder of his drink. He sets the cup on the table to his side. And leans back.

"I find your company tiring, Mycroft. You might give me these last few –"

"Of course," Mycroft murmurs. He bends over, drops his cloth serviette over Reggie's empty glass, places both in his briefcase, picks up the case, then stands and walks out of the room. He does not look back.

Behind him, Reggie's eyes close. His right hand convulses, once, on the arm rest. Then he becomes quite still.

The other occupants of the only room in the Diogenes that allows speech do not notice a thing untoward. They are used to members nodding off in the quiet atmosphere.

Everyone minds their own business in the Diogenes.

OooOooO


	14. Chapter 14

**These characters in their current incarnation belong to the BBC and in their original incarnation, to the estate of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.**

**THE BOYS OF BAKER STREET**

**CH. 14**

**NOTE: This ongoing work is a Trilogy.  This is Book Two.   This work occasionally references events that occurred in Book One:  THERE BUT FOR THE GRACE OF JOHN WATSON. If you have not read that work, you might not "get" some of the references in this story. You might want to stop right here and go read GRACE first, then come back to BOYS.  Otherwise, your reading experience will not have the intensity that I labored so hard to create for you.**

**WARNINGS: Angst; Language; Violence; Murder; Chemical Interrogation; One body part - detached; Con-Drug use; Non-Con drug use; and a really lovely bit where bedroom furniture attempts to hold a conversation with Doctor Watson.**

**Two dark chapters left dear Readers. Then the light gets so bright – you're gonna need shades …**

OooOooO

John opens his eyes again just after Dr. Fields finishes withdrawing the blood samples. Apparently, Sherlock has not returned to their room yet, as John can neither see nor hear him. He turns his head slightly to the left to stare into the deep brown eyes of Thomas Fields, who sits by his side and nods encouragingly at him. John nods back, then shuts his eyes immediately. _Lord, he is just so dizzy and so very thirsty_.

But although John would like to remain awake and speak to this person with the warm sympathetic gaze – he reminds John of his grandfather, who was a doctor and whom John dearly loved – it is immediately obvious to John that he needs to close his eyes and _keep_ them closed for a tad longer…as the bedside lamp has inexplicably sprouted a mouth – and is urgently trying to communicate with John.

John mulls this over for a bit, comes to the conclusion that this is just a trifle odd and decides to lie still, eyes closed, just for a little while, just until someone brings him some water – and makes the lamp shut the fuck up.

OooOooO

"Something doesn't add up," Mick Billings speaks quietly into his mobile.

"Facts, Mick," his employer asks.

Billings stares around the lot. All his instincts are on alert.

"Listen, Jim, I'm not so certain that the "late, departed" Doctor Watson is either late or departed. This just isn't – right."

"All right, Mick, but spare me your intuition. I need information," James Moriarty's voice is calm, detached. _A first for him,_ thinks Billings. He imagines Jim seated in the hideously expensive conference room as he stares out at the hideously expensive view.

Billings leans casually against his rental car and tries not to show too much interest as the tall dark man in the expensive suit – "posh" thinks Billings – stands outside the Memorial Hall with the gray-haired Detective Inspector from the Yard. Both men are deep in conversation.

Billings frowns. He busies himself with his car keys.

"Mick, I'm afraid I'm going to have to cut this short. I am expecting the Ambassador any minute now."

Billings straightens up at Moriarty's overtly casual tone. "But what about Watson ? If I'm right and he's _not_ dead –"

"Well, that's the question, isn't it? I put into play an interesting scenario a few weeks ago concerning our good doctor. If he's – late – in every sense of the word, it was obvious wasted effort and funds. But if he's not –"

Billings knows better than to interrupt Jim's musings. He just waits.

"If he's not – then I think a small note to Holmes the younger is definitely in order. Just find out. And quickly."

Billings sighs. And just how the hell is he supposed to do that? A few yards away, first posh suit shakes the D.I.'s hand and enters a second dark car. The D.I. nods once at him and watches as the car drives out of the lot. Then he deliberately turns to stare directly at Mick Billings, his hands in his pockets.

Billings opens the car door – and tries to ignore the itching sensation between his shoulder blades. The familiar sensation that means he is being watched.

"Interesting," thinks Billings. Aloud all he says is, "All right, Jim."

The door to the conference room opens. James Moriarty glances up from his perusal of the scenery outside the window.

"Get me the information. Try not to be boring about it. Then get some rest, Mick. Eat. I will speak with you later. The Head of State I was expecting has arrived."

James Moriarty hangs up, places his mobile phone carefully on the top of the conference table in front of him next to two other mobiles that lie there, then nods at the older woman, who stands, ramrod straight, next to the polished teak conference table. Her pale blond hair, shot through with white, is pulled away from her angular face, in an intricately-woven braid, now coiled on top of her head. She faces Jim, her hands crossed in front of her. She wears a thoroughly disgusted expression – and a pair of blue latex gloves.

There is a large soft-sided cooler on the teak surface next to her.

"Well, go on then, let's not keep the Ambassador waiting."

She zips open the top of the cooler, grimaces, then reaches in and lifts out a severed human head, holding it by the dark thatch of hair with two shaking hands. She has to lean over slightly in order to get – and keep - a grip on the thing. _It is surprisingly heavy,_ she thinks. She keeps her head turned to the side so she doesn't have to look directly at the obscenity.

James Moriarty stares into the face of the former Ambassador of a certain island nation - which will remain nameless - and smiles grimly.

"That'll teach the stinking sods to steal from ME," he says with quiet satisfaction.

He nods at her. She keeps her head turned as she slowly lowers the Ambassador's head back into the cooler, tears the latex gloves from her hands, drops both of them on top of the head, then zips the cooler closed.

She swallows and stands there, awaiting orders. _And dear God but she hates this little monster. But the pay is good. Unbelievable, actually. Still, first chance she gets …_

"Most excellent, my dear. Now please take three photos, from all angles, and send them immediately to the names we discussed – don't forget the President - accompanied with the text I just sent you," Jim murmurs.

He swivels his chair to stare out the huge plate glass wall in front of him.

"I imagine the payment they are withholding will be forthcoming quite soon. That will be all, at least until tea time. Earl Grey, I think. And pop some Mozart in, will you? I'm feeling – expansive – today."

She nods without speaking, lifts the heavy cooler and turns toward the door.

As the door opens and shuts behind him, he mentally dismisses her, as he leans back and admires the seven million pound (British) view.

He sighs. So hard to get and keep good help these days. Not for the first time he thinks _, Oh, Sebastian, you dumb bastard, I do miss you._

Which reminds him of Sherlock Holmes again – and of a certain Doctor.

" _I promised him payback for Sebastian and if Watson **is** alive, then I can only assume my little 'gifts' have come in quite handy. Watson was quite amusing, really. Bloody shame our time together was cut short."_

James Moriarty's thoughts break off as he leans back in the ergonomic swivel chair and smiles at his reflection in the glass. He swivels, reaches for one of the three mobile phones, then holds it momentarily, as his fingers tap on the screen. He nods and grins. _Yes, that will do nicely._

But not yet. Not just yet. Give Billings time to report back. Then …if Watson ** _is_** alive … if this is all a ruse … then –

He smiles again as the strains of Violin Concerto No. 3 in G major drift through the room.

Outside, the placid surface of Lake Lucerne reflects a deepening blue sky.

OooOooO

Greg Lestrade watches as Mycroft Holmes drives away. Their planned early evening drink has been postponed by the news that Sally Donovan's killer is not only in custody – but apparently ready, willing and able to bring down everyone with him who had a part in her murder. He cannot wait to get his hands on – _amend that_ \- _to question_ the sod himself. He nods as a panda car pulls up.

As they drive to the Yard, Lestrade wonders what Mycroft's facial recognition program will turn up. And he wonders – again – about the man he spoke briefly with in the Hall.

The man that reminds the D.I. so very much of a certain late Sebastian Moran.

OooOooO

Mycroft pulls his mobile out, then considers for a moment before he calls her.

As always, she answers on the first ring.

"My dear, I need to make a quick stop by the office to – acquire - a few necessary items. And then go on to the Diogenes, before the drive to the mansion this evening."

Her voice is warm in his ear. "What do you need?"

He tells her.

One hour later, he tucks the tiny white box with its blue bow into his suit pocket, then seats himself in the black car and taps idly on the door handle as his driver loads his case into the trunk, along with a few other items. _This is going to be an interesting evening,_ Mycroft thinks coldly.

He thinks of Reggie first, considers the probable outcome of their conversation, then dismisses him from his mind.

He then considers Sherlock's demand that John be provided with nursing care. He sighs and pulls out his mobile again. She answers immediately. They confer briefly. Then both of them hang up, satisfied that a viable solution to the problem has been met.

He thinks of Maggie Oakton. And frowns in the dark interior of the car.

"Sir?"

"Yes?"

"We're coming up on the Diogenes."

"Very good." Mycroft fingers the box in his pocket.

OooOooO

Sherlock returns to their room with the box of hypodermic syringes, followed hesitatingly by Maggie Oakton and then by Agent Williams. Sherlock introduces Oakton to Fields, who nods and shakes the doctor's hand. She stands back, just slightly outside the room, not certain yet of her role here and just watches. She is very aware that Mycroft's man stands directly behind her. He stares at the back of her head coolly, then turns to have a word with the other man who waits outside in the hallway.

Sherlock glances over at John, who appears to be asleep again. Galen Dennison gathers up his notes, then crosses over to the two men. He raises an eyebrow at the box of syringes, looks momentarily startled, then his eyes widen and he stares straight into Sherlock's eyes.

"Good Lord, don't tell me—" Dennison swears.

The detective just nods at him. He hands the box to Thomas Fields, who just raises one white eyebrow.

"Thomas, we have every reason to suspect that these syringes are tainted in some fashion, perhaps laced with something that caused John's collapse, as well as several of the other symptoms he has experienced. I need them to be analyzed by the same lab that will analyze John's blood samples."

Fields nods, takes the box from Sherlock's hands. He frowns, glances at John, then back to the detective. He includes Dennison in his conversation.

"Sherlock, if what you suspect is true, than I have no way of knowing exactly how to help this man until the analysis is done. The best we can do is watch him, keep him hydrated, and hope whatever he has been subjected to works its way through his system quickly."

Dennison nods at this, but he continues to stare at the box of hypodermics. He shakes himself and then addresses Sherlock.

"Mr. Holmes, Doctor Oakton and I need to confer on how many of these hypos were used to inject Doctor Watson." He does not say aloud, "Is she still under house arrest?" He has no wish to embarrass Maggie further. Frankly, he feels she has the beginnings of a wondrously _rewarding_ lawsuit.

Sherlock's eyes narrow as he looks from Dennison to Fields, then back to John who appears restless. He wonders if John is beginning to come round again. Mycroft won't be here for several hours and he's loathe to allow Oakton the free run of the mansion. Still – he remembers her startled reaction when he asked for the syringes.

He steps back to stare at Maggie Oakton, who stands silently in the doorway, flanked by both of Mycroft's men.

"Thomas, I need Doctor Dennison – and Doctor Oakton – to speak with each other about the number of shots John was given using these," he waves his hand at the box that Fields holds. "I wonder if you would be kind enough to accompany both of them back to Doctor Oakton's room and sit in on that conversation."

Fields glances from Maggie to Sherlock. His eyes widen, then he just nods.

"My pleasure," he says. "But I want to check his heart rate again. And would someone please bring him some fresh water."

At the door, Agent Williams nods and leaves to accede to Fields request.

Fields looks at Sherlock closely. He shakes his head. "I'm not exactly sure what is going on here, my boy, although both you and your brother have put me in the immediate picture. I have a few questions. And I'm not certain I want to leave my patient at the moment."

Sherlock smiles at the affectionate term. "Thomas, I understand and I appreciate your coming here to help us out." He looks across to John's quiet figure. The doctor has settled back down.

Then he glances up to surprise a look of interested perusal on Thomas Fields' friendly face. It has been at least six years, no, seven, since he has seen the Holmes family physician. And then it was under circumstances that were less than ideal. Sherlock is grateful that Fields has not referred to that time – _the insane years,_ Sherlock thinks.

He finds the man as comforting as he remembers.

"I'll stay with John. I won't leave him unless you or Doctor Dennison are back in the room with us."

Fields stares into Sherlock's quiet gaze. He nods. "That works. All right. Let's get these samples sent off now. And then get some water into John. The man's dehydrated."

Fields turns to hand the box of syringes to the agent who stands outside the door. They talk for a moment, the man nods, takes the syringes, along with the case that holds John's blood samples. As they finish, Williams returns with a carafe of water, a glass and a few straws. He hands these to Fields at the door, then takes up his position outside the door as the first agent leaves with all of the samples.

Fields moves back to John, carefully sets the water and glass on the bedside table, then pulls the stethoscope from around his neck again. Sherlock watches him closely.

Galen Dennison crosses to Maggie Oakton where she stands to the side of the door and places one comforting arm around her shoulder.

Sherlock stares at both of them – and frowns.

OooOooO

Joe's tone is incredulous, to say the least.

"I don't like it," he repeats for the second time.

Lori is adamant. "Joe, I need to do this. He saved my life. I know he doesn't remember it, but I'm here, alive, because of Doctor Watson. And you are I are together because of him, as well."

"I don't like it," Joe repeats. Third time now, she notes. She grips her phone tightly. She has to make him understand. Lori sighs. Then she modifies her tone of voice. Relationships are, after all, about compromise.

"Joe – I'll be traveling with Mr. Holmes – with Sherlock's brother. There are several of his men at the mansion. I'll be perfectly safe. In fact," she hates to dig at him like this, but if it will make him see things clearly, "in fact, Joe, I'll be far safer there, then I will be here." She glances around Joe's small house. Soon to be their small house.

She listens for him to say something. Anything.

"I can tell that we are going to go round and round about this," he sighs.

She smiles in spite of his tone. Or maybe because of it. She's won and she knows it.

"No, Joe. We're not going to fight about this. Or about anything. At least I hope not. But I have to do this. I have to. Please understand."

She holds the phone as close to her ear as possible. Hears his sigh of acceptance. And shuts her eyes in relief. She is going to go anyway, but it's – nice – to know that it is with her fiancée's blessing. Well, maybe not his blessing. But at least he sees that she has to do this.

"All right, Lori. Do I pick you up and drive you somewhere or—"

"Nope. Mr. Holmes is picking me up here at the house." She glances at her watch. "In about an hour."

Joe Rodriguez knows when he's beaten. "All right. But you better call me as soon as he arrives and you're safely on your way."

"Of course, Joe."

"And call me when you're half-way there so I know you're all right."

"Of course, Joe."

"And call me as soon as you get there, so I know—"

"Yes, Joe, of course I will."

He huffs. "I love you, Sweetheart. You know that."

She smiles against the phone. "And I love you, Joe Rodriguez. And _You_ know _that_."

As she hangs up, Lori's grins. She goes to make herself a cup of coffee, then check the supplies she will take with her. It's going to be a long drive.

OooOooO

Thomas Fields checks John's heart again, confers briefly with Dennison, then picks up his large medical bag and leaves with both Dennison and Oakton, followed by Agent Williams. At the door, he turns to admonish Sherlock one more time.

"As soon as he wakes, get that water into him. Call me if there is any significant change. None of this text nonsense."

Sherlock nods. The door shuts. And finally, _finally,_ he and John are alone.

Sherlock crosses over to look down at his Army doctor.

"John, they're gone. All of them. You can open your eyes now. John?"

John Watson sighs. His voice is slightly hoarse when it comes.

"That depends, Sherlock," he says tiredly.

"On what?" Sherlock pulls the chair over and sits down. He reaches for the glass and pours some water into it, plunks in a straw. He turns his head to stare at the doctor, who has not responded.

"On what, John?"

John's voice is aggrieved. "On whether or not the wallpaper is still watching me."

Dead silence.

Sherlock contemplates the good doctor for a moment. He has to actually steel himself not to glance at the green silk walls.

"John?"

"Yes, Sherlock?"

"I think it's pretty much a given that the wallpaper has not grown eyes in the last hour or so."

"All right. But I'm not opening my eyes. Not yet."

Sherlock sighs. He lowers the glass and bends the straw in the middle.

"John, just drink this water. It will help you feel better. And I guarantee you that at the onset of sentience on behalf of the wallpaper – or any other part of the room - I'll make certain you are the first to know."

John sighs. He reaches up a hand to feel for the straw. Sherlock guides it into his mouth.

"Sherlock?"

"Yes, John?" He sets the glass down on the table.

"Can you do something for me?"

"Of course, John."

"Can you turn off the bloody light and get into bed? That may make the sodding lamp stop talking."

More dead silence.

"All right, John. Only in the interest of science, you understand."

"In the interest of science, then," murmurs John Watson.

OooOooO

"Ms. Hansen?" The man at the door stands to the side so Lori can clearly see the dark car at the curb – and its occupant, who now stands next to the car. Lori recognizes Mycroft Holmes immediately.

"Yes, I just need to get my case and a few supplies."

She comes back to the door, her arms loaded. He takes her suitcase from her, then the two boxes she hands him. Lori holds onto her purse, coat and medical kit.

She locks the door behind her. And walks down the path toward Mycroft Holmes.

OooOooO

One hour and two full glasses of water later, John seems to feel better. But he keeps his eyes closed, for good measure.

The two men lie entwined in their bed. Sherlock holds onto John's quiet form and watches as the light outside the window changes from dark blue to pale violet, then finally to a very dark blue. He wonders if John will feel well enough shortly to get out of bed and eat.

In the meantime, there are worse ways to spend one's time.

The detective curves around his partner, front to back, while they continue the discussion about John's current – _problem._ Mainly John does the talking and Sherlock does the listening.

_I should be quite good at this,_ he thinks. This is, after all, a topic that he is intimately familiar with.

"Sherlock – what if – what if I can't…" The doctor's voice breaks off and he takes a breath. Tries again.

"What if I can't get over this and I – and we - oh bloody hell!" John curses. "I can't even – fucking - verbalize anymore."

Sherlock frowns in the dark against John's head. He listens to what John says and tries to deduce what John is not saying.

John steels himself. And tries again.

"Sherlock – I don't understand what's happened. We know the syringes were probably messed with. But we don't know what the hell was in them. Other than the obvious. And I don't know how they've affected me – in the short and long run. And I have no bloody idea how any of this is going to change the treatment Dennison has outlined."

Sherlock says nothing. He just holds onto his Army doctor and listens.

"Sherlock …" John's voice drops, hesitant. The detective has to strain to hear it.

"Yes, John," he whispers against the silky hair.

"Just listen, okay? Just listen, Love, and don't say anything. I can't seem to think straight. And that's been going on for more than a day. I - you didn't sign up for this and I just want you to know that—"

Pressed up against his partner, one arm draped over John's chest, Sherlock can feel that John's hand has gone hesitantly to the dog tag that hangs around his neck.

'I just want to tell you, that – well, if you feel -"

The detective’s eyes narrow in the darkening room. He feels a deep burn in his chest – and a sudden flash of anger. And more than a little fear.

"John Hamish Fucking Watson, don't even try to pull this crap on me." Sherlock raises up on one arm to consider the blonde head next to him. The doctor's form goes entirely still.

"I swear to Christ, John, if you finish that statement, I'll knock you down. As soon as you can stand, that is. In fact, you probably need to get the hell out of this bloody bed right now, so we can have this out. I know I can land one decent punch before you take me out. Get out of bed, John. I mean it. Get out of bed now so I can punch you!"

He balances himself on one arm and stares bloody murder at the back of his Army doctor's quiet head. His heart pounds in his chest.

_Christ, this is all I need right now. John trying to back out because of this  - -_

_John – Don't._

The doctor turns over in bed until he faces Sherlock. His dark eyes are open. The detective can see them in the light from their window.

John's voice is resigned, but filled with quiet amusement.

"You and whose army?"

Sherlock stares at the other man. Then he suddenly grins and collapses back onto the bed. He curls his left arm around the doctor's head and shoulders.

John's hand drops from the dog tag. He reaches to grip his lover’s thigh as it nestles up against his right leg. He squeezes the muscles of Sherlock's leg, then just lets his hand lie there.

Imminent crisis averted, Sherlock tries to relax, but his nerves still thrum. He pulls John's head toward him with his left arm until the doctor's head lies on his pale chest. He sighs and bends his head toward John's, shuts his eyes and inhales his partner's scent.

John continues as if the tiny rift never happened.

"Sherlock, I just don't know how to – this is new territory for me. And I'm - scared. Scared shitless, if you want to know. The last time I felt like this, I had just deployed."

And bloody hell, right now, it's his muddled thought processes that scare him the most.

John shifts his weight slightly. The detective is curled around his right side and he moves to allow Sherlock to inch even closer. Right now, he needs the assurance of the six feet of warm body that all but covers his own. He keeps his hand on Sherlock's thigh. He can feel the muscles shift under his fingers as the detective tenses up, then relaxes again.

In the dark, Sherlock Holmes considers John Watson. He has never heard John admit to any fear. He has seen this man walk into hell – and face down demons. And he knows that this admission is not to be dismissed lightly. He considers his response. Is one even needed?

Six different platitudes rise to his lips. He discards all of them as being trite, and therefore, unworthy of the man who lies next to him.

Instead, he reaches for familiar territory. Terrain they both know by heart.

Sherlock buries his nose in John's soft hair and shuts his eyes. His deep voice whispers against the soft strands. "The first time I overdosed, Mycroft found me."

He offers no explanation, no apology. John knows these things about him – these facts. They've been through all of this. He made it a point to make certain the doctor knew about the insane years, the suicidal years. First at Eton, then later at the three universities Sherlock attended – had no choice but to attend – each time he cocked it up. Each time that his brother and Mummy – but usually Mycroft - _always Mycroft_ \- had to make apologies for him – change his school – get him back into rehab.

Each time the elder Holmes brother did whatever he had to do to keep the younger Holmes brother from self-destructing.

" _I really owe Mycroft a lot_ ," he thinks, not for the first time. He frowns in the dark against John's still head _. "The insufferable git."_

John knows all this. They've discussed all of this – all these things – back when they began this crazy relationship.

_But maybe it's time to say it again,_ he thinks. Maybe it will make it easier for John to assimilate what has happened to him. _To them,_ he amends. _To them._

"Heroin." John's voice is quiet. Sherlock can feel that his Army doctor's breathing has calmed somewhat. He can feel it through the palm of his right hand, currently wrapped protectively over John's upper chest. He begins to finger through the soft hairs on John's chest.

"Heroin," the detective agrees, in a low murmur. "My tolerance was not – what I calculated. Although during those days, I usually experimented with morphine and later, of course, cocaine."

John's body stiffens slightly. Sherlock can hear his breath as it huffs out. But John says nothing, only tightens his right hand slightly where it lies on the detective's hip, as Sherlock's clever fingers continue to softly stroke through John's chest hair - over his heart.

"Locked me in the damned wing – my wing – at my own request. He saw that I was fed and watered, like a bloody cat. I didn't much care at the time if I ate or not. But he was right there. He never left me. I'm afraid I trashed the wing. I was, of course, attempting to stop it – all of it - at one time. I believe the term is cold turkey."

He keeps his breathing slow and stable against John's back, hoping to keep the doctor's own heart rate slow and steady.

"I bet Mummy was not pleased."

"Mummy was not pleased," Sherlock agrees. "She was away at the time – on the continent. She only saw the past evidence of my – problem – when she returned. Thank goodness she didn't have to deal with the worst of it. Mycroft saw to that."

John thinks about this for a moment. He feels a faint tremor in his left hand but he ignores it. He's heard all this before, including the Why's and Wherefores' of Sherlock's various drug dependencies.

He is very well acquainted with the detective's nightmare years in school, and later, at the various universities he attended. Years of taunts, of bullying and of his mental – and on occasion – physical torture. He knows about Sherlock's horrid "trial by chemicals" insisted upon by countless psychiatrists – at the behest of the detective’s own mother. He winces when he replays these memories. _But at least these memories are clear,_ John thinks.

_This cannot be easy for Sherlock to relive._

But the familiarity of the conversation is helping him mentally work through his own insecurities. And for that, he is extremely grateful to his partner.

"And the second time? When Lestrade –"

"Lestrade found me the second time. If he'd showed up five minutes later, in all probability, we would not be having this discussion."

At the matter of fact statement, so coolly uttered, John's entire body shudders against Sherlock's long frame. His thoughts take a different turn and he considers, briefly, a life in which he never meets Sherlock Holmes. He frowns and pulls his mind back from the brink of the unthinkable.

" _Cocaine,"_ John thinks.

"Cocaine," Sherlock agrees quietly, voicing aloud John's thought.

The detective says nothing else. His clever lips nuzzle their way around John's neck. The doctor bends his head into the pillow to give him better access.

Neither man speaks for a few minutes. Finally, John takes a steadying breath. Sherlock waits.

"Sherlock – I brought up going cold to Dennison, during our session yesterday."

"And?" Sherlock's hand stiffens, slightly, on John's chest. But he says nothing.

"Galen spoke with Dr. Merit at St. Anne's and they both said, given the intense cardio response, that it would not be —" he stops. _Jesus, but this is just so bloody hard._ John sighs and shuts his eyes more tightly. The headache is nearly gone. But he can feel tiny tremors under his skin. _And his left hand –_

"Not good?" Sherlock asks. He sounds strangely relieved.

"Not good," John agrees.

The detective's hand continues to stroke over John's chest. Sherlock bends his left arm to form a protective cocoon around John's head and bad shoulder. His long beautiful fingers find their way into John's hair. They begin to stroke and lift the strands of silk, let them fall, then stroke through them again. He comforts John Watson the way a parent comforts a sick child.

John's breathing slows. He feels himself start to drift. He could sleep, now, here in the cool darkness, the blessed silence of their room. Sleep with Sherlock, except - a slow fire begins to grow in his mind. He frowns.

"What did you decide?" Sherlock's voice is calm. Is John shuddering? Is he cold?

Or is this the beginning of an attack?

"John?"

John sighs. Sherlock's tone is quietly patient. He has not taken charge or tried to advise John on what to do. But he has not divorced himself from the situation either. John feels the frown lines between his eyes begin to relax.

But the small tremors increase.

"Galen's urging me to continue with his medication – a derivative of – it's a form of -" John's voice halts as it betrays his growing inner confusion.

He cannot believe, cannot fucking _believe_ , that he is lying here, having this conversation with Sherlock. And for once, it's not _about_ Sherlock. It's about _him._ John Hamish Watson, M.D. – at least, that is how he still thinks of himself. He _is_ a doctor, damn it, no matter what that blasted letter says.

He can get through this explanation. He owes this to his partner.

John takes a steadying breath to try again. But Sherlock is there before him.

"Methadone?" he murmurs.

John nods, relieved. He leans into the clever fingers that continue to stroke through his hair. At the same time, Sherlock's right hand rubs softly over John's chest, stops to finger the strands of his soft chest hair, then his fingers splay out and rub gently over the muscles again.

_Insanity_ , John thinks _. I've slipped into the fucking Twilight Zone. And taken Sherlock right along with me._

Some part of John feels the only appropriate reaction to this nightmare is to get out of bed, throw open the door - and run. Run until he breaks. Run until his heart gives out. Or until he gives up. All three.

But there is some part of him - the part that he hopes wins - that just wants to curl up under this man's outstretched arm and never, ever leave this bed or this room.

The part of him that wants to stay like this forever. Forever with Sherlock.

_John H. Watson, M.D. and addict._ He shakes his head slightly. He hates the path his thoughts have taken.

_Stop it. Just stop this right now. I'll be a doctor again. Once we get through this_ , _I can always re—_

"You can always revalidate," Sherlock murmurs, again displays the uncanny way he has of answering John's thoughts before John has a chance to verbalize them. In the darkening room, John smiles. Then he begins to think over the challenges, the difficulties ahead.

A half dozen arguments rise in John's mind, but he voices none of them.

"Yes," he says quietly. "I can always revalidate."

Sherlock nods slightly against John's head. "And you will, John."

He stops stroking through the blonde strands and lays his left hand against John's forehead, begins to rub tiny circles there, to ease the headache that has tightened John's forehead.

Under his right hand, he can feel his Army doctor's heart beat under his fingertips. He shuts his eyes and lets the beat fill his mind.

At the same time, he can feel micro tremors as they begin to work their way through John's body.

"John?"

"Sherlock – I think I'm about to—"

The detective launches himself out of their bed, grabs his mobile off the table as he does so. He's thumbing Dennison's number before John can even react.

"Sherlock! Stop. Don't bother calling Galen – "

He looks up from his mobile to stare at John, whose eyes are wide open. He can see them in the soft light from their window.

"John! You'll need an injection."

John frowns as the tremors increase. He moves his legs under the blankets.

"And are you 100% certain – absolutely certain – that those injections are safe? Are you?"

He moves the blanket off his shaking form and tries to sit up. He'll be damned if he pours sweat into the clean sheets. Bloody hell, he needs to sit up!

_I have to get out. Out of this fucking bed and this fucking room and away from this –_

Startled at John's outburst, Sherlock drops the mobile and grabs John Watson by his shoulders. The tremors are more violent now; they shake the doctor's entire body.

John swears, then doubles up, wraps both arms around his midsection. He tries to stop the groans. _Jesus, how much longer –_

Sherlock pushes him back down on the mattress and grabs both wrists. "John. John!"

"Sherlock – I can't – just forget anything I say. Don't pay any – Oh dear fucking God!"

Sherlock's eyes narrow at the doctor's shaking form. He removes his right hand from John's wrist and reaches to click on the bedside lamp, then grabs the doctor's hand again as he tries – and fails – to take a swing at the detective.

"John, not certain this is a really good idea."

_But bloody hell, John's right._ He isn't 100% certain about Dennison's injections. _Oh, hell!_

In the sudden light, John blinks. He struggles furiously against Sherlock's restraining hands. Finally, he goes limp and his dark eyes stare murder up at Sherlock Holmes.

"You fucking bastard! I know you've got it here. Known all along. I know you can get me some _help_! What good – what blasted _good_ are you!"

"No, John. Just – No!" Sherlock holds on grimly. And shuts his mind.

They ride out the attack.

OooOooO

Three hours later, Mycroft Holmes and Lori Hansen arrive at the mansion.

One of Mycroft's men meets the car, and at Mycroft's request, escorts Lori to her room, off the same hallway as Maggie Oakton's room. The agent asks if she is hungry and offers to show her around the mansion, to show her to and from the kitchen. Lori shakes her head. She ate earlier before she left the house, and frankly, she's too excited to think about food. They both decide that introductions can wait until morning.

Lori immediately asks about Doctor Watson and is assured that he is being looked after that night. She's escorted to her room. She tries – and fails – to memorize the number of hallways, stairs, steps to her room.

" _Oh my_ ," she thinks. And " _Sweet Mary Mother of God,"_ when she opens the door to what will be her room.

Lori sets out the items she has brought with her, then stares around the room in wonder. First, she calls Joe to assure him she is all right. She hangs up her phone, places it on the bedside table and then just sits there.

Eventually she gets over it and begins to think about the trip she has just made with Mr. Holmes. A very quiet Mr. Holmes, who didn't say more than twenty words to her the entire trip. An extremely subdued Mr. Holmes who asked if she was comfortable and warm enough and then basically left her to her own thoughts while they drove through the evening.

She shakes her head, goes through her suitcase to find her night clothes. But once she's changed, she can't sleep. Finally, she props herself up with pillows in the huge bed and just watches the evening light through the window. She's not exactly certain what she expected from the trip out here. Perhaps some quiet conversation about Doctor Watson. Perhaps a word or two about what happened to them in the Wellington. But – nothing.

Lori sighs, sets her mobile alarm to wake her early and tries to settle down. Sometime during the night she wakes up suddenly, stares at the ceiling, and realizes she is going to miss Sally Donovan's funeral.

Lori turns over in bed and starts to cry.

OooOooO

Mycroft sees that the tiny nurse is escorted to her room and then immediately asks for his brother. And to see Maggie Oakton.

Sherlock meets Mycroft in the library. The detective stands in front of one of the tall windows and stares out at the night sky. For once, he is not the one pacing.

Mycroft makes a turn of the room, his hands in the pockets of his trousers, then turns to face his brother.

"After the – revelation – concerning the hypodermics, do you still feel that Doctor Oakton had anything to do with it?"

He watches his brother's tall form as he turns to face him. Sherlock's expression is totally unreadable. And that irritates the bloody hell out of Mycroft.

Both brothers stare each other down.

"I cannot trust her around John unless I know for certain, Mycroft. And she is the one who had the syringes in her possession."

"Which came from St. Anne's, Sherlock."

Sherlock nods. "So she says." He crosses to sit in the chair that John favors, the one set a little back from the window. Mycroft sits in the facing chair and observes his brother.

Sherlock leans forward, his arms on his knees and stares at his clasped hands.

"Mycroft, Oakton is the one who showed up, out of the blue, to help us. Oakton is the one who was given the box of hypodermics at St. Anne's. Oakton is the one who injected John on multiple occasions."

He raises his head to stare straight into Mycroft's steely gaze.

"And Oakton is the one who injected John here in this library, when she was not even supposed to have a hypo in her possession. And she used the batch of medication that I had asked Dennison to stop using, just the night before."

Mycroft steeples his hands under his chin in an unconscious imitation of Sherlock's default thinking position. He shuts his eyes briefly, nods once, then opens them to pin his brother with his gaze.

"All right. Given the same set of circumstances, I would undoubtedly come to the same conclusion as you, Sherlock. It can all be circumstantial – or not."

Sherlock just stares back at his brother.

Mycroft taps his fingers against the arm rest, then nods again. He looks across at his brother. "How is John now?"

"He had an attack earlier this evening. We rode it out. No injection. He seems to be all right now. They're - exhausting."

Mycroft raises one eyebrow. But Sherlock just shakes his head.

'Neither one of us could be certain about Dennison's injections either. I think they're all right. John seemed to feel a lot better after the first two Dennison gave him. But we need to know for certain."

"And is John –"

"John's sleeping. Thomas Fields is sitting with him." Sherlock glances at his watch. "I need to get back to him, see if I can get him to eat something. And Doctor Fields needs to get some rest."

"It's not that late, brother. And I do have some questions," Mycroft says. His mind is full of the evening's events. Not the least of which is his meeting with a traitor at the Diogenes Club. He frowns, momentarily deep in thought. Then he glances up at Sherlock.

"First things, first. The fax you received had a number printed at the top. That number came from an office supply store – in Lucerne."

Sherlock nods. It is what he has expected.

"If Maggie – if Oakton tells the truth, and those hypos were given to her by someone at St. Anne's, you need to ask Lestrade to put someone on it right now. Probably too late, but there might be traces."

"Lestrade. Why not one of your men?" Sherlock demands.

"Bloody hell, Sherlock! Do you think I have an unlimited supply of agents? That we have nothing else to do with our time? Let Lestrade's people earn their salary. But I'm willing to bet –"

Sherlock interrupts before Mycroft can finish his sentence. "That the needles came from a pharmaceutical house in Switzerland – Lucerne to be exact."

"Exactly."

Both brothers sit for a moment, then Sherlock frowns. "That begs the question: how were they singled out and used just on John? Why weren't they put into general use?"

Mycroft shakes his head. "Easily done. But Lestrade can figure that one out."

Sherlock looks at him closely. "Mycroft, if _he's_ there, as we think, why haven't your people run him to ground yet?"

Mycroft sighs. "Because, brother mine, the reports that Merit has been receiving – and passing on to Oakton and by default, I assume, to you, come from a legitimate source and so far, there are no signs that—"

"Your people are incompetent," Sherlock snaps. "If they can't handle even a simple investigation—"

"Sherlock, I'll thank you not to pursue this line of thought. We've already requested that two bodies of Frank's "victims" be disinterred. I can tell you right now, that has not gone over well with the families. The third is no problem. There is no family. And now the fourth –"

"Fourth."  Sherlock’s eyes narrow at the news. He steeples his fingers and thinks. "That leaves three more. And John."

Mycroft nods. "As you say. And my people have not been idle. There has, apparently, been a change of management over the pharmaceutical house located in Lucerne, but there are five other of Franks' – let us say, "enterprises" for want of a better term – scattered throughout the continent. These have to be investigated, as well."

Sherlock shakes his head. "You're wasting your time with those. The fax came from an office supply in Lucerne, a simple phone call will probably tell us where the hypos came from. The reports are being issued from the house in Lucerne." He drops his hands and regards his brother steadily.

"Bloody hell, Mycroft, do I have to tell you how to do your job?"

Mycroft stares at Sherlock, takes a deep breath to get himself under control.

He stands up. Sherlock immediately stands and not for the first time, curses that extra half-inch that Mycroft has over him.

"Sherlock, I would remind you that I have lost agents – good people – in the course of this cursed investigation, for want of a better term. Don't push."

He glares at his brother. "I think it's time I questioned Maggie Oakton."

Sherlock looks into his brothers' eyes. He itches to ask about Mycroft's investigation into the destruction of their flat. He wants to bring up the envelope that somehow made its way to the mansion, with no postmark. He stares into his brother's eyes – and says none of these things. Instead, he nods curtly at the library doors. Mycroft follows him out into the hallway.

OooOooO

"You have got to be kidding," Maggie Oakton exclaims. She sits at the desk in her room – and stares at Mycroft Holmes, who stands in front of her, his hands in his pockets.

"You can't just—Mycroft, it's me! It's Maggie. Old acquaintances, remember? Jesus!" she exclaims.

She stands up, agitated, and stares out of the window at the night sky. Another beautiful evening. She can even see a star or two. She shakes her head and is aware her heart beats far too rapidly in her chest.

"Apologies, Maggie, but here is what has to happen," Mycroft states in his quiet voice. He watches the American psychologist as she tries to come to grips with what he has just told her. Finally, he sighs, pulls over the extra chair and sits. He crosses one elegant trouser leg over the other, smooths out a crease, and crosses his hands.

Maggie stares out the window at the dark grounds, then sighs and turns to look at the man she thought she knew. Finally, she pulls out the chair to the writing desk and sits down, unconsciously mimicking his gesture. She's suddenly very, very tired. And not a little scared. And yes, she has to admit, intrigued as well.

She taps her fingernail on the writing desk and finally nods at Mycroft.

"Okay, Mycroft, please go over it one more time."

Mycroft sighs. "Maggie, you have been implicated in a rather serious crime, by your actions—" he holds up one manicured hand as she opens her mouth to protest.

"Hear me out, please." She shuts her mouth, and nods.

He smiles grimly. "Your actions, innocent or not, have brought about a series of attacks upon Doctor John Watson's health. They may have seriously compromised his health, not only his current state of well-being but his future one, as well."

Mycroft frowns and stares at the carpet for a moment. Then he looks up at the psychologist.

"So we can do this one of two ways. I can take you with me when I leave in the morning, turn you over to the authorities, make my charges – and believe me, Maggie, when I assure you they will stick – at least temporarily, until proven otherwise. You can fight this legally and I have no doubt, given the circumstantial nature of the evidence, that you will win your case."

Mycroft lifts his head to stare at the psychologist directly. "But the damage will have been done. No matter what the outcome, and I am nearly 100% certain it will go in your favor, you will still have been _branded_ , let us say. Your reputation will be tarnished. All your hard work will be –"

"Flushed down the toilet," the American says quietly. Her voice is quiet. But there's a sick feeling in the pit of her stomach. All her years – all of it – wasted. And for what? Because she was trying to help a good man.

Mycroft reads her thoughts as they flash across her face as clearly as he reads his morning newspaper. He sighs again.

Maggie Oakton thinks for a moment, then looks him right in the eye "And now tell me the second way again? My mind blanked out when you said interrogation."

"Apologies," Mycroft says. He regards her curiously. "We use an effective method in my organization to root out the truth, when need be. I have undergone this treatment once myself, as has my personal assistant – at her own behest. Yes, it is chemical in nature –"

Maggie flinches at this news but she just nods for him to continue.

"However, we have never lost a single subject and no one has ever suffered any type of let us say damage from it, emotional, mental or physical. It is innocuous. The side effects can be a bit unpleasant. But nothing that a good night's sleep doesn't cure."

He stares at her, his hands clasped in his lap.

Maggie considers her options. She stares at the floor for a moment, then raises her head to look at Mycroft. "And if I choose this second option? This 'process,' as you call it and pass, which I will, of course. What then?"

Mycroft smiles. "Then I can assure you, Doctor Oakton, that not only will your reputation remain intact, but doors will open to you that you would never have been able to walk through in your lifetime otherwise. "

He tilts his head and stares into her brilliant green eyes. "I can also assure you the offer of let us say _long-term employment_ within my organization. And believe me, when I say, Maggie, that life will never be dull."

He stops speaking and lets her think things over.

Maggie frowns. "And if I refuse this 'process' –"

Mycroft sighs. "I assure you, Doctor Oakton, if you refuse to undergo this procedure – and there is no way on this earth that I can or would force you to undertake it – then you and I both will get a good nights' sleep; hopefully, partake of a decent breakfast in the morning and depart together. Once we reach London, however, I am afraid—"

"Yes, yes, you've told me that," Maggie says quietly.

She drums her fingers on the table, then is startled – they both are – by urgent pounding on her door. It opens – and Galen Dennison rushes into the room, followed closely by Agent Williams. The little psychiatrist stops in his tracks when he sees Mycroft Holmes, a man he has never met, then he turns to see Maggie where she sits by the desk.

"Sir, I'm sorry. He was adamant and through the door before I could—"

Mycroft just waives Williams aside. The agent nods once, then goes out and shuts the door behind him.

Dennison ignores him and crosses the room to stand by Maggie Oakton and puts an arm around her shoulder.

"Maggie – I don't know exactly what the bloody hell is going on here," he stares back at Mycroft Holmes, "But I know Sherlock – Mr. Holmes - said his brother was questioning you in your room and I came to—"

"To protect me," Maggie says quietly. She smiles softly and places her left hand over Galen's hand where it rests on her shoulders. She looks up at Mycroft, who has been watching these proceedings with something akin to amusement.

"Mycroft Holmes, this is Doctor Galen Dennison," she says quietly.

"Charmed," Mycroft says. He sits still and watches the pair of them. And raises one eyebrow.

"Wish I could say the same," Galen says. "But I don't much like your methods, Mr. Holmes."

"Galen, please." Maggie defers. She looks straight across at Mycroft. And nods once.

"Mycroft, I accept your second proposition. I'll undergo this process, as you call it. Where do we go? Here or—"

Mycroft smiles. "I would recommend the library. The seats in there are most comfortable and it will be warm enough, once we start a fire in the—"

"Mags, what in bloody hell are you going on about?" Dennison stares down at the dark-haired psychologist. "What process?"

OooOooO

Sherlock enters their room as quietly as possible but there is no need. John Watson sits in one of the chairs, talking quietly with Doctor Thomas Fields. The two men look up at him when he comes in. And John smiles at him.

Sherlock smiles back. He glances toward the elderly physician.

"Thomas, I thought you and John might want to come to the kitchen with me. I'm not much of a cook, John can tell you that, but my partner assures me I make a tolerable grilled cheese sandwich."

John shakes his head and groans. "What, now? No. Thomas, just say no. The last time he cooked, he set the kitchen on fire."

John stands up. Sherlock notes he is steady on his feet and his eyes are clear.

"John, that was for an experiment," Sherlock protests. He is obviously delighted the doctor is awake, aware and hungry. He glances at Thomas Fields.

"Well, Thomas? Feel like taking your life in your hands?"

Fields just laughs. He stands up slowly, removes his glasses and puts them back in his shirt pocket. Then he crosses to the door. Sherlock moves aside so the elderly man can go first.

"Lead on, McDuff," Fields says.

John shakes his head and follows them out. "I'll do the cooking," he says quietly. "You are not going to poison your family doctor."

OooOooO

"Bloody hell!" protests Galen Dennison. "Maggie, there is no way on earth I will allow you to be – to be railroaded into this so called 'process'. "

He stares from Mycroft Holmes quiet figure to Maggie Oakton's determined face.

"Maggie, this is – we're talking putting chemicals in your body that you know nothing about. Good God woman, are you daft?"

Maggie shakes her head, more determined than ever to follow Mycroft to the library.

"Galen, you can go with us, and act as my – protector – if you will. Or you can remain here and wait for me to come back."

She looks up at Mycroft. "That's right, isn't it? He can go be with me if I wish?"

Mycroft hesitates only for a moment. Then he relents. "If that is your wish, Maggie, I have no objections." He stares at Dennison.

Dennison looks from Oakton to Mycroft and shakes his head. "Madness. Sheer madness."

Maggie stands. "I'm ready, Mycroft." She walks quietly to the door and goes out. Galen Dennison follows her, shaking his head all the while.

"Madness," he whispers. But he follows them both the down hallway, followed closely by Agent Williams.

OooOooO

"Doctor Oakton – Maggie? Wake up." Mycroft's voice rings out in the quiet atmosphere of the library. The fire snaps and pops and has warmed the room considerably.

Galen sits in a chair close by Maggie's side and puts one hand on her arm as she sighs, and opens her eyes. She lifts her head, glances toward Mycroft Holmes, who sits in the chair opposite her, glances around the room, then looks up at Galen's concerned face.

"How'd I do?" she says quietly.

Mycroft smiles. "Splendidly. " He nods at Agent Williams, who comes quietly forward to hand Maggie two white tablets and a glass of water. Then he bends over and places a glass filled with a dark liquid and ice cubes on the table next to her side.

She looks at the tablets in her hand. Mycroft nods and she swallows them. She looks at the glass next to her and raises one eyebrow.

"Iced Diet Coke," Williams says softly. "Believe me, it helps."

He smiles into the psychologists' eyes and stands back. She stares at him, thinking what a change in his attitude from just – has it only been 30 minutes? She glances at her watch.

"Good grief," Maggie Oakton says. She picks up the glass and drinks the Diet Coke.

Mycroft Holmes just smiles at her, rather fondly she thinks.

Galen looks from her to Mycroft. Comes to a decision.

"Now me," he says quietly.

Mycroft just raises one eyebrow. "Doctor Dennison, your actions are not under scrutiny in this particular circumstance."

Maggie just shakes her head. "Galen – your heart," she says quietly.

He looks at her and pointedly does not remove his hand from hers. "Mags, I might have handled those hypos, as well, and Sherlock – Mr. Holmes will never be quite certain about me if I don't undergo this – process."

He looks up at Mycroft. "Me next, Mr. Holmes."

Mycroft considers the psychiatrist and sighs. "Doctor Dennison, Doctor Oakton just indicated you have a heart condition of some sort. I do not recommend this in your instance. And besides, I do not believe this situation warrants it."

He stands, stretches and smiles at both of them. "Let's see what the kitchen has to offer, shall we?"

Maggie laughs tiredly. "Okay, Mycroft. I am hungry. But I'm afraid we do our own cooking here."

"Good God, why?" Mycroft demands. He makes a note to ask Anthea to get a decent cook on staff immediately. Then he bends over, picks up the small digital tape recorder off the table, drops it in his pocket and says, "After you both, please." They precede him out of the library.

He just nods at Williams as they pass him. The agent nods back. He takes out his mobile and sends a text to the other agents currently on duty in the mansion.

Doctor Maggie Oakton has been cleared.

He hits Send. And follows them out to the kitchen.

OooOooO

Mycroft leaves in the early morning. But not before he receives a phone call from Anthea to give him the results of the analysis on John Watson's blood samples – and of the hypodermics.

The hypodermics that have been traced to St. Anne's and from there, to a pharmaceutical house in Lucerne, Switzerland.

The hypodermics that are coated on the inside with a crystalline form of Dr. Marcus Franks' drug .

And of a hallucinogen. Psilocybin, to be exact.

And every single one of John's blood samples reinforces the fact that Franks' drug is alive and well in his bloodstream.

Mycroft receives the grim news. And goes in search of his brother.

He leaves the mansion twenty minutes later.

Three hours, 31 minutes and an odd number of seconds later – Sherlock finally snaps.

OooOooO

Sherlock snaps.

But his brother's visit – and departure - has nothing whatsoever to do with it.

One hour and 14 minutes after Mycroft leaves, Sherlock meets with Doctors Dennison, Oakton and Fields in the library. He leaves John in Lori Hansen's care, so he can talk with the three professionals. They fill him in as to John Watson's probable current and future physical, mental and emotional states - since all lab results now confirm that the good doctor has been injected – and repeatedly re-exposed to Marcus Franks' filthy drug - the drug that, in base form, has been used in microscopic crystalline doses to coat the interior of the hypodermics.

This is in addition to trace amounts of psilocybin … manufactured with hallucinogenic mushroom traces (which most probably accounts for John's sudden breathing problem and definitely account for his wandering mental state for the past 18 hours.)

Amateur hour all the way around.

But it did the job. And that's all James Moriarty wanted – and paid for. Just another twist of the knife. Payback for Sebastian Moran. And for the loss of his enterprises and investment in the Wellington Museum.

Sherlock stands, fists clenched in the pockets of his trousers and listens while each individual talks – first the Psychiatrist; then the Psychological counselor, finally, his family physician, Dr. Thomas Fields.

He stands and listens as Dennison goes over the results of the lab tests on the hypodermics and on John's blood samples. The blood sample results match almost exactly with Sherlock's own lab results on John's blood. He just nods.

Galen also stresses that the effects of psilocybin should be temporary, are not usually long-reaching, and John will shortly excrete most of the substance. However, the long-term damage from Franks 'drug remains. Both Galen and Maggie have been making a list of how many injections John has probably received using the tainted hypodermics. But they have not come up with a definite answer yet. They believe the number to be over 12 and not more than 15. Sherlock nods.

Sherlock stands and listens, as Doctor Maggie Oakton and Doctor Galen Dennison tell him what to – possibly - expect in John's emotional and mental behavior. And what they have already observed. This matches what Sherlock has observed. He nods.

They both have copies of the latest reports from Franks' clinic in Switzerland – reports which now show that four "test subjects" have died from the long-term effects. And that the last two experienced increased mental confusion and emotional turmoil. Sherlock declines to read them. The two doctors look at each other. Then place the reports back in their folders.

He respectively faces Dr. Fields and listens as the good doctor firmly, yet kindly, tells Sherlock what physical responses he can expect from John. And what the probable outcome may be. _May be_ , Dr. Fields stresses, unless someone working away on the problem somewhere can find something – anything - to reverse the damage already done. Or unless one of them thinks of something that they haven't thought of at this point in time.

When he is done speaking, Thomas Fields removes his glasses, folds them carefully, places them in his shirt pocket, and regards the younger Holmes with compassion.

No one speaks. They all wait for Sherlock to respond. In his trouser pocket, Sherlock's text chime sounds. He fishes it out, glances at the screen. And his back stiffens. He drops the phone back into his pocket. He turns back to stare out the window. His tumbled curls glow a dark auburn in the morning light.

After a full minute of silence during which no one says a single word, Sherlock Holmes turns to look at all three doctors. His eyes blaze in his face, a near crystalline blue frost. Maggie Oakton is extremely tired and her head still buzzes. More than anything in the world, she just wants to go to her room and sleep. But when she sees the detective's eyes, she swallows. And looks away.

Sherlock regards all three medical professionals with a cold gaze.  He nods, says "I see." And "Thank you."

He then moves to stand in front of Maggie Oakton – and asks for one of her nearly spent asthma inhalers, if she can spare it. Startled, Maggie fishes one out of her purse. She hands it to the detective, who nods curtly. And leaves the library.

He makes a quick trip to his laboratory. He does not go to check on John in their room.

He leaves no note for anyone, not even John. He does not answer his mobile.

Sherlock snaps.

And leaves.

OooOooO

Agent Enders sends a hurried text to Mycroft when Dennison comes out of the library and comes to find him. Enders then rushes to the garage – where he is just in time to watch as Sherlock commandeers one of the vehicles - and drives away. Destination unknown.

Enders stands and watches the SUV as it roars down the long drive. He loses sight of the taillights long before it comes to the end of the long drive. He thinks it might turn left. Left toward the main road. Left toward London. But he's not certain.

As Mycroft reads Enders' text, he thinks, "I should have expected this. My brother's behaviour for the past two months has been altruistic, to say the least. He's taken near total charge of John's care since his kidnapping. There have been no cases to occupy his facile mind."

As Mycroft picks up his phone and dials D.I. Lestrade, he thinks again, "I should have expected this." He hopes that his men will be able to pick up Sherlock's trail and wonders where his brother has driven off to. The phone rings and D.I. Lestrade answers.

As Lestrade hangs up from speaking with Mycroft, he thinks, "Bloody hell. I am about to bury an officer and a close friend. I do not need Mycroft Bloody Holmes asking me to babysit his near insane younger brother." Then his thoughts break off and he looks out the window of his office. _She_ would have been in by now. Both of them would have sat here, in his office, drinking their morning tea and going over cases.

Greg shakes his head. He will have to put someone on this. The Yard will benefit, of course, they always do when Sherlock gets involved. But bloody hell. He sighs, calls in Officer Cates and asks him to go through the cold case files, to kindly pull every one he can, box them up and have them ready for the courier that Mycroft Holmes has dispatched.

Greg does not want to speak with Mycroft again. So he picks up his mobile, sends a quick text to Mycroft, one of the few times he has ever done so; in fact, he thinks it may be the _only_ time he has ever texted the elder Holmes. He hits Send. And forgets about it.

Agents Lynn and Williams both read their texts from Enders – and immediately split up. Jake Lynn goes to the room to escort Doctor Watson to his session with Dennison in the library. Williams goes in search of Enders and Sherlock.

Outside the mansion, Enders stands and stares after the rapidly disappearing vehicle Sherlock Holmes drives. He turns to meet Williams. And fills him in. Neither one of them are certain what to do at this point. Enders notes the weather is warmer. And Williams goes to his room to catch up on some much needed sleep. At least, until they hear otherwise from the boss. This is, after all, not his shift.

Maggie Oakton leaves the library dispiritedly and sits at the long counter in the kitchen, and nurses a cup of lukewarm tea. She reads her text from Agent Enders. And frowns. She glances down at her notes. Before Mycroft showed up, it was a toss-up as to whether or not she remained in the mansion to be of help to Doctor Watson – or left and proceeded to sue the holy hell out of everyone she can think of _and_ their dog. But now, the world has changed.

She reads through her notes of her one full session with John. And shakes her head. A man's sanity is at stake here. She gathers up her notes and then sends a quick text to Galen to let him know where she'll be. Maggie then tiredly makes her way to her room to sleep.

Galen Dennison checks his text from Maggie and smiles grimly. She definitely needs her rest. He sits in the chair in the library and waits for John to make his session. He wonders if he should go in search of the doctor, if it's possible that Watson has followed Holmes in his mad dash from the mansion. But then the doors open and John comes in, followed silently by Agent Lynn.

Lynn glances around the library, sees Dennison, nods in his direction, then shuts the doors and takes up a position outside in the immediate hallway. He wonders how Enders and Williams are doing in their pursuit of Sherlock.

Williams sends a text to Agent Roaman, just to fill him in, although he is certain Roaman is sound asleep. This is not, after all, Roaman's shift either. Agent Roaman checks his text, then rolls over and goes back to sleep. Presumably the other three have it all in hand. Just in case, he sleeps with one ear open.

Doctor Thomas Fields makes his solitary way to his room, sits on the bed, removes his shoes, and thinks of silencing his phone. He – almost – does not check for messages. He makes it a practice never to send texts. He hates texts. Fields sits in his room and stares at his clasped hands. And shakes his head. In the past, answers have come to him when he just lets his mind relax. So he lets it relax. He imitates the now unconscious Agent Roaman and prepares to lie down and sleep.

Just before he goes to sleep, Doctor Fields, ever the good doctor, dutifully checks his messages. He has received one text, the only text message anyone has sent him in several months. Everyone calls the doctor, rather than texting him. He reads his one text – and raises an eyebrow.

All he can think is, "Oh, Sherlock, my boy, ** _now_** what have you gone and done?"

**TAKE CARE OF HIM**

**\- FOR ME**

**SH**

John Watson comes into the library, accompanied by Jake Lynn, and seats himself opposite Galen Dennison. He has no idea – yet – that Sherlock has left. So although everyone has texted , more or less, well, _everyone_ \- no one has texted John. Someone will have to tell him in person, but no one wants to be the one. This is because John does not currently have a mobile phone and cannot send or receive texts from anyone.

John's mobile was lost or misplaced the day John was shot by Sebastian Moran.

And therein lies the rub.

OooOooO

Sherlock drives steadily toward his destination. He frankly does not care whether any of his brother's agents follow him or not. As he nears London – and the airport – he glances at his petrol gauge. He pulls over to fill up. Then places a demanding call to his brother.

Their conversation is brief, during which Mycroft rages at his brother, then cautions him, then – finally – provides all the information he needs, mainly because Sherlock adopts an attitude of supreme icy indifference, which leads to the detective ultimately having all of his demands met. Sherlock hangs up on Mycroft, then pulls up the previous message he received in the library and reads it again. A cold unwavering fury fills his head. And heart. He allows the emotion to remain as it helps him focus on the task at hand.

He deliberately parks John Watson in a far corner of his mind and does not think of him again for another five hours. Except once, for seven seconds, during the trip.

Sherlock gets back in the car and tosses his mobile on the seat next to him.

As Sherlock drives toward the nearest airport, his mind goes over and over the message he received in the library.

A message sent from the phone that was nowhere to be found the day that John was taken.

The phone that Sherlock considered to be lost in the lower levels of the Wellington Museum. Lost forever.

The phone that at one time belonged to Doctor John H. Watson.

**HOW IS OUR "FORMER" DOCTOR'S MENTAL STATE?**

**OR SHOULD WE JUST SECTION HIM –**

**AND BE DONE WITH IT?**

**JW**

OooOooO

As Sherlock drives, his mind considers actions and probable outcomes. He comes up with eleven different deadly scenarios in 42 seconds – and dismisses them all as being unimaginative and too humane.

By the time Anthea calls him back to tell him all arrangements have been made, and which runway Sherlock should proceed to, the detective abandons his newest consideration - flailing alive by means of razor thin knives – and begins to seriously contemplate all possible variations of the Biblical term "An Eye for An Eye."

By the time he boards the private jet, his plans are in place. He exchanges a few words with the pilot, nods at the co-pilot, a man he has met once before, and settles in his seat, the only passenger. He stares out the window and fingers Maggie's asthma inhaler in his trouser pocket. He allows himself to think of John Watson for exactly seven seconds. Then he pushes him out of his mind and shuts his eyes. He sleeps for one hour and ten minutes exactly.

OooOooO

One hour and 25 minutes later, a private jet lands at Zurich Airport, Switzerland.

A single passenger disembarks.

OooOooO


	15. Chapter 15

**These characters in their current incarnation belong to the BBC and in their original incarnation, to the estate of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.**

**THE BOYS OF BAKER STREET**

**CH. 15**

**NOTE: This ongoing work is a Trilogy.  This is Book Two.   This work occasionally references events that occurred in Book One:  THERE BUT FOR THE GRACE OF JOHN WATSON. If you have not read that work, you might not "get" some of the references in this story. You might want to stop right here and go read GRACE first, then come back to BOYS.  Otherwise, your reading experience will not have the intensity that I labored so hard to create for you.**

OooOooO

**WARNINGS: TORTURE; COLD. BLOODED. MURDER.**

OooOooO

"Don't make people into heroes, John. Heroes don't exist. And if they did, I wouldn't be one of them."

**SHERLOCK – "THE GREAT GAME"**

OooOooO

_"Harm John, harm Sherlock. It's all the same now."_

And he wonders when it all became the same. When the lines became so blurred that he could no longer distinguish between John's welfare and his own.

He's not certain when it happened. Just that it has.

**THERE BUT FOR THE GRACE OF JOHN WATSON – CH. 3**

OooOooO

Sherlock stands up to disembark, and hesitates for just a moment as he looks at the co-pilot, a man he knows from a previous flight. For a few seconds, he thinks of the necessity of leaving his passport with the man, just as a precaution, then decides against it. Too many chances that he might need to prove his identity.

In the end, he nods at both men, and leaves, still fingering the asthma inhaler in his pocket.

A dark car is parked at the bottom of the ramp. Sherlock glances at the driver, nods, then gets in the back seat. There is no need to mention their destination to this man.

_Really, sometimes his brother's control issues know no bounds_.

But this time, Sherlock doesn't mind. If anything, he is grateful for the knowledge that he is not alone in this _enterprise._

Sherlock is not the only one who is eager to see an end to this madness. While Sherlock has an immediate vested interest in the outcome of this visit – Mycroft has coldly reminded the detective that he, too, has an axe to grind.

John is, after all, practically his brother-in-law.

And Mycroft has not forgotten that morning just a few weeks back, there in the lower levels of the Wellington Museum. The morning when John Watson saved not only Sherlock's life and that of Nurse Hansen's' - but Mycroft's, as well.

In the end, the detective muses, this is not about him alone, going single-handed up against one of the most dangerous criminals in the world. At one time, it might have been. But no longer. Things have changed.

He'll take all the help he can get. As long as – ultimately – it's his hand that brings an end to the monster's existence.

This is no longer about Sherlock Holmes' personal vendetta against James Moriarty.

No. In the end, this is about one thing and one thing only: John Watson's continued existence on this planet.

Because Sherlock knows now that Moriarty will stop at nothing – nothing – in his quest to have the detective to himself. For what purpose, Sherlock has never been able to really deduce. For the knowledge that, in Sherlock Holmes, the criminal thinks he has someone who matches him in his insatiable desireto Not. Be. Bored.? Someone who will do nearly anything to avoid the tedium of daily existence? For the game?

_But that is no longer true_ , Sherlock muses, as he watches the scenery. Because of John, things have changed. _Everything has changed_ , he thinks. Everything of any importance.

A certain Army doctor told him once, as they lay together talking, that Moriarty recognized that in Sherlock, he had met his mirror image, his complement, as it were. The world's only consulting detective matched up with the world's only consulting criminal.

Sherlock's light to Moriarty's dark.

Sherlock mused on this as he lay with John. His doctor cast him in the role of light. He wondered if this were, in fact, true. Was he, Sherlock, representative of the light? Was there such a thing as mirror images? And if this was a match, it was most definitely not one made in heaven. A match made in hell, then? And where did that leave the both of them?

Or maybe all of this is utter nonsense and Moriarty has some sick purpose in mind – has had from the very beginning - that Sherlock hasn't divined yet.

Sherlock's not certain and he knows now that he no longer cares. It is of no relevance.

_This is not about the game,_ _any game_ , Sherlock thinks. He played the game once. Played Moriarty's game and played by the criminal's rules.

And it nearly cost him the life of the man he loves.

After the events of the last few weeks, Sherlock knows without a shadow of a doubt that James Moriarty will stop at nothing, absolutely nothing, until John Watson is utterly destroyed.

But the destruction of the doctor's mental and physical health is only the prelude, Sherlock knows.

Nothing will make James Moriarty rest easy until John is dead.

And there is no way on earth that Sherlock Holmes is going to let that happen.

He has been remiss for too long. He has been so wrapped up in John's care, so involved in the immediate needs of his partner, that he has lost sight of his original goal: eliminate James Moriarty and by eliminating him, ensure the continued existence of John Watson.

Nothing else matters to Sherlock. Nothing.

And because nothing else matters, he views the next few hours with a single-minded purpose.

He will give Moriarty no opportunity, none at all. There will be no game of cat and mouse, no give and take posturing, no chance that Sherlock becomes a victim – or hostage - himself.

No chance that Sherlock does not return to John Watson when this is over.

This will end one way and one way only – with the utter destruction of James Moriarty.

No other way works for Sherlock.

At the sound of the text chime, Sherlock glances at his phone.

**Target in place**

**MH**

The detective reads, then nods. The driver meets his gaze in the rearview mirror.

"It's a Go, then Sir?" he asks quietly.

"It's a Go," Sherlock says. He drops his mobile back into his pocket and goes back to watching the scenery, his mind busy with variables.

They drive toward Lucerne.

OooOooO

**Earlier that morning -**

Sherlock has been gone from the mansion exactly 25 minutes when John comes into the library for his session with Galen Dennison.

Earlier, Sherlock asks him to remain in their room and talk over his planned treatment and medical needs with Lori Hansen, while he, Sherlock, works in the laboratory. This is a deliberate falsehood, as Sherlock immediately goes to the library, where he meets with the three medical professionals as they all discuss John's probable mental, physical and emotional responses to his long-term exposure to Marcus Frank's drug.

At first, John is dismayed to find that Mycroft has made the decision to bring the tiny nurse to the mansion to act as John's nurse, and as nursing assistant to Thomas Fields and Galen Dennison. But what's done is done. As John sits with Lori, the small history they share smooths over any awkwardness they might feel upon seeing each other again. He sits and talks with her about his ongoing treatment with Dennison – and what he hopes will be his long-term relationship with Thomas Fields. Fields is, after all, the Holmes family physician and John will soon be part of the family.

Lori, who was not aware of this fact, is delighted with this turn of events. They sit together for nearly two hours, as Lori makes notes, is brought up to speed on John's recent attacks and then both of them veer off and Lori talks about Joe and John listens, He does not, however, discuss Sherlock. Time flies. When John glances at the clock, he realizes he has only a few minutes before his scheduled session with Galen Dennison. He excuses himself; he and Lori leave the room. Lori goes off in search of Dr. Fields and John makes his way to the library escorted by Jake Lynn.

It is only when John seats himself opposite Galen Dennison that his trained soldierly instincts take over – and before they can begin their session, he regards Galen for a moment, notices signs of fidgeting that have not been noticeable in the psychiatrist's previous behavior, and he frowns. His senses buzzing, John leans over, his hands clasped in front of him and asks the psychiatrist point blank, "Galen, what's wrong?"

"Nothing, John. I'm fine." However, Galen Dennison does not quite meet his eyes. He pulls out his notebook and pen, sits back, crosses his legs, looks at John, and John sees that the small psychiatrist's eyes are full of confusion. Something obviously bothers him.

John glances around the library, then looks back at Galen. He looks out the tall windows to the sloping lawns. John's eyes widen. Then he simply takes a deep breath, shuts his eyes – and goes utterly still. Less than a minute later, John opens his dark eyes in sudden alarm. He looks around the room again, as if he has lost something. His breath begins to come more quickly.

"John? John, what's wrong?" Galen asks, suddenly concerned that the doctor is going into an attack.

John just shakes his head and stands. He swipes a hand through his hair, frowns again, then mutters, more to himself than to Galen, "I have to find Sherlock."

He walks toward the door, leaves Galen there in his seat in front of the window, looking at him. Just as John has his hand on the door handle, Galen calls to him.

"John – I think you'd better come back – and sit down."

John turns to look at the psychiatrist.  And his eyes narrow. He walks back to stand in front of Galen but he does not sit down. Instead, John crosses his arms ( _In- charge posture, defensive,_ thinks Galen. _Here is the soldier_.) He looks down at the psychiatrist and asks, this time in a much harder voice, "Galen, what's wrong? And where's Sherlock?"

"I don't know exactly where he is," Galen admits quietly. "I just know he left the mansion nearly thirty minutes ago. And told no one where he was going."

John regards Galen, then nods. This is corroboration. He knows the detective is gone. He can no longer sense him in the mansion.

He turns and strides to the door, jerks it open and leaves.

Galen Dennison sits there for a moment. He sighs and removes his glasses to rub the bridge of his nose. He has the beginning of a spectacular headache.

OooOooO

She looks up at the entrance and at the tall man who stands there. He walks up to her, smiles the ingratiating, false smile of the government official (God knows, she's seen enough of them in her years working in offices) and hands her his card. He holds a clipboard. She sighs, glances at her calendar. Yes, the building inspector is due this morning. And this must be he.

She buzzes **_him._** While she waits, the inspector checks his watch, glances around, then wanders over to look at a painting that hangs over the lobby sofa.

"This better be good," Moriarty's voice comes over the intercom, clearly aggrieved.

"Planned building inspection, sir. The inspector is here."

James Moriarty glances at the small security screen. The man has his back turned and is currently perusing the artwork on the walls. He holds a clipboard. His sleeves are rolled up, he wears a frankly plebian cap and he occasionally glances at his watch, clearly upset at being kept waiting. As Jim watches, the man raises one hand and pokes at one of the paintings on the wall. He scratches the back of his head with his pen.

_Idiot_. Probably can't tell a Van Gogh from a Jackson Pollock.

"Have security escort the – gentleman – around. And don't bother me with this type of nonsense again."

"No sir," she says quietly and with more than a little disgust. She buzzes security, and one man comes from the back hallway, glances at the inspector, then nods curtly for him to follow. She watches the two of them walk away with a tiny sigh. She may be pushing 60, but she can still appreciate extreme male beauty when she sees it.

As she watches the two of them disappear down the hallway, the front door opens and another three men come in and walk up to her desk.

She frowns, clearly annoyed. It's going to be one of those mornings.

OooOooO

No. No. NO. NO. NO!

He can't DO this! He can't have DONE this!

John hurries out of the library, damn near runs to the front hallway, to the entryway table, carved from a solid slab of mahogany. The morning sun slants in and highlights the reddish striations in the polished surface. John yanks open the nearly hidden drawer and sighs in relief when he sees the brown envelope still lying there. Then his eyes narrow. He grabs the envelope and groans. From the weight of the thing, it is obvious it no longer holds their two passports or anything of weight for that matter. He can feel something, though. John slides his thumb under the loose flap and shakes the envelope into his open palm. A single sheet of paper falls out, folded in half.

He takes a breath, unfolds the paper and reads.

**_It's no use, John._ **

**_Don't try to follow._ **

**_S._ **

John reads the note written in the familiar spidery hand. Then he crumples the sheet in his fist and tosses it on the floor with a curse.

"The bloody sod!" he says with vehemence.

Behind him, Jake Lynn stands and watches.

OooOooO

The man with the clipboard pauses in his inspection of the men's bathroom, begins to cough, then grabs at his chest. Moriarty's security goon sighs, and watches the display. The inspector hurriedly sets down the clipboard, fumbles in his pocket, comes up with an asthma inhaler, holds it to his mouth and depresses the top.

The security man just crosses his arms and waits for the irritating episode to be over.

"Finished?" he asks.

The man nods once, his eyes streaming. Finally he straightens and says in a strong German accent, "Forgive me please. I often have this reaction in new buildings. It's all the fibers, paint, and chemical compounds."

He walks past the security man, who moves to let him pass. As he walks by him, the building inspector simply lifts the inhaler in front of the agent's face and presses the top. The man has no time to react. He drops like a stone.

Sherlock Holmes catches him under the armpits, then drags his supine body over to one of the toilets and props the man up as best he can. He shuts the loo door, then retrieves the clipboard and goes out the door.

In the hallway, he glances left and right, then turns right and walks to the conference room doors and pushes them open.

OooOooO

"Jake!"

"I'm telling you, John, I have no idea where Mr. Holmes went. We just know he took one of the vehicles and left earlier this morning."

Jake Lynn glances at his watch, then looks back up at John Watson. "Not that long ago either. About 45 minutes, I'd say."

John looks at Jake Lynn. He swears at Sherlock Holmes. Then expands the swearing to include just about everyone in the manor.

Not for the first time he curses the fact he no longer has a mobile phone. He looks at the agent and his eyes beg the question. Jake Lynn sighs and shakes his head.

"I can't John. I'm sorry."

"I'm sorry, too," John says angrily. He strides back to the stairs to go to their room.

OooOooO

At the sound of the door opening, James Moriarty turns from his perusal of the view outside the glass wall. His eyes widen. He lunges for the intercom button and actually manages to hit it, but Sherlock is on him before he can do more than get out the one shout. The detective grabs the smaller man's arm, swings him around, depresses the inhaler in front of his face and Moriarty falls onto the marble conference table as if poleaxed. His body slides down and falls to the floor. Sherlock just lets him fall.

The detective glances around the room, notes the location of the monitors and that he has probably already been seen and dismisses it from his mind.

First he locks the doors. For good measure, he pulls a zip tie from an inner pocket, loops it around both handles and yanks it tight. It won't hold for long but it should be just long enough.

He quickly turns back to Moriarty's supine body. He removes several more of the plastic strips from his pockets, then bends over James Moriarty and manhandles him into one of the chairs.

He hears the pounding of feet as they come down the hallway and looks up as the doors rattle. A few seconds later, he hears an altercation outside the door, several shouts and finally a shot. Then comes several taps in a prearranged signal.

He crosses to the door and fishes out his mobile phone. And reads the simple message. Again, no call initials. One of Mycroft's men. Excellent. All is well.

**All clear.**

**How long?**

He types back

**As long as it takes**

**Check the loo.**

**Left one there**

**SH**

And hits Send.

He turns back to Moriarty and removes a few items from his pockets, including a pocket knife. He begins to quickly cut through the suit jacket that Jim wears. Westwood again, Sherlock notes. He tosses the expensive scraps on the floor, and then grimly uses the knife edge to cut the white silk shirt from the madman's body.

OooOooO

Angry as hell, John returns to their room to find two boxes sitting on their bed.

He notes they are both sealed. His hand automatically reaches toward his back pocket, then stills when he remembers he no longer owns a pocket knife.

"Here." Jake Lynn steps forward, withdraws his folded knife, and hands it to John without hesitation.

John looks at Jake's outstretched hand which holds the knife, then looks up into the agent's eyes. Jake looks back at him steadily.

John takes the knife silently, slits through the flaps of both boxes, considers the blade for a second, then closes it and hands it back to Jake. Then John nods. Jake nods back and pockets his knife.

That small victory over, John turns his attention to the larger of the boxes. He raises his eyebrow once he pulls out the bubble wrap and wadding. Then he lifts out a new laptop computer, state of the art. His eyes widen.

"Why now?" John murmurs. Jake says nothing.

John picks up a slim envelope. It contains two notes - one of them lists the encrypted password and other info John will need in order to utilize the pc and one in "her" handwriting, which simply says, "To replace yours."

John frowns at the note, _replace his pc_? He then hands the notebook pc to the agent who carries it over to the writing desk and sets it down. Jake Lynn busies himself with plugging in the power cord and setting out the items that came with the computer. Then he crosses over to stand next to John.

The smaller box contains a duplicate of John's driver's license, tucked into a brand new wallet. John raises one eyebrow at the obvious expensive leather. The wallet also contains currency, bills and a few coins. There is a smaller box. John flips it open and reveals a new watch, currently set to military time, with bells and whistles that John has never had in a watch before, not even with the one that Sherlock gave him, which John sorely misses.

It's not the one Sherlock gave him. But it serves the purpose.

John regards the watch, then sighs and slides it onto his wrist. He flips open the wallet a second time, just to look at the driver's license.

_So, I'm dead but can still drive. Interesting."_ John thinks. He slides the wallet into his back pocket. The familiar weight does not, however, dispel his black mood.

Then he reaches into the box and withdraws the last item, a new mobile phone.

" _Now this is more like it,"_ John thinks. He picks up the phone, glances through the note that comes along with it, memorizes his new phone number. He gives the number to Jake and asks the agent to go out into the hallway and ring him.

Five minutes later, he turns to Jake Lynn, furious.

"Your boss and I are about to have words. You might want to leave. Or stay and get an earful. Don't much care."

Jake raises one eyebrow, then turns and leaves the room. He shuts the door quietly behind him and takes up his position outside. None of the agents feel that John is any longer a danger to himself – but no one has remanded the suicide watch orders and until they do, Jake sticks like glue to the good Doctor. Besides, he has taken an immense liking to John Watson and enjoys his company.

Jake Lynn sighs and wonders if he'll hear any of the altercation through the door. He sincerely hopes so.

OooOooO

"What the fuck, Mycroft!"

"Good morning, John. To what do I owe this –"

John explodes.

"What bloody use is a mobile that doesn't text out? And you arse! I've already tried Sherlock's number. This ruddy phone won't even make long distance –"

"Apologies, John. But Sherlock wanted—"

"I don't give a flying fuck what your mad brother wants or doesn't want. Of what possible use is this thing? Why even bother for Gods' sake?"

John fumes. He's already so angry with Sherlock he can barely breathe. Now he has to add Mycroft _Master-of-the-Universe_ Holmes to the list. Fuck this!

"John, please. Just listen. Please."

John waits. He fumes. But he waits.

Mycroft sighs. This is a call he would normally have Anthea handle – but he feels John's current mental and emotional state warrants his personally speaking with him. Besides -

"John. Sherlock wanted you to have a phone you could use to communicate with the others in the mansion. The grounds are rather extensive. He knows you are in the habit of taking long walks. If you should need one of the doctors – well, he wants you to have a way to summon help."

"Bloody hell, Mycroft, you are the most useless—"

"Tell me, John, what is the first number you tried calling?"

Dead silence.

"You know bloody well what number," John says in a level tone of voice.

"Yes, I imagine I do," Mycroft replies. "And I imagine I am also correct in assuming you immediately tried texting Sherlock."

More dead silence.

"John, did it even occur to you that had you gotten through, you might have jeopardized Sherlock's plan, his position – perhaps his life?"

John, stunned, remains quiet. And frowns.

"Sherlock was 100% certain that the first thing you would try to do is to reach him, either via phone or text. Your attempting to do so would only serve to aggravate his – possibly precarious - position. But he did want you to be able to communicate with others on the grounds."

"Mycroft –" John warns. Sherlock would recognize his 'take no prisoners' voice.

Mycroft just ignores it. He's used to playing with the big boys. John Watson does not faze him, not much anyway. He just continues speaking.

"And the others at the mansion can text you, if need be. But we did limit your ability to reach the outside world. Unfortunately, there is no technological way – as of yet – to limit your texts to just the mansion. So we have disabled outgoing texting completely. "

John shuts his eyes and attempts to control his breathing. It does not escape him that Mycroft has used the past tense every time he's spoken of Sherlock's wishes. The boulder that sits in his chest grows a tiny bit larger.

_It's a wonder I haven't had a bloody stroke,_ he thinks. He pinches the bridge of his nose. Takes another deep breathe. It doesn't help.

All he wants to do at this moment is to get his hands around Mycroft Holmes' neck – and squeeze.

Mycroft sighs.

"In the outside world, you are still deceased, John. And although we feel we have routed out most of the – immediate - threats to you and to the family, others may still remain. Until I am 100% certain that you and Sherlock and the others in the mansion are safe –"

"Just tell me where he is, Mycroft. At least do that much!"

Dead silence. "John, I cannot give you my brother's location. Everything hinges on—"

"He's gone after him, hasn't he? Sherlock's gone after James Moriarty. Alone. I'm right, Mycroft. I'm right, aren't I?"

"John, I –"

John snaps.

"Fuck you, Mycroft! And the horse you rode in on!"

John hangs up, tosses the mobile onto the bed and storms out of the room.

There are times, John thinks, when he is most grateful to his American comrades in arms.

He learned a lot of useful slang from his years of deployment.

He strides down the hallway, too angry to speak. After a dozen feet, he stops, turns, brushes past Jake Lynn, and goes back for the mobile phone. He drops it in his pocket, then storms out again.

Jake Lynn follows resignedly behind.

OooOooO

She sits at her desk in the lobby and looks at the man who stands next to her. He looks back. All security personnel have presumably been – she believes the term is _neutralized_.  All she knows for certain is that no one answers her summons. Two of the three men who came in the front door stride immediately down the long hallway. They ignore her shouts at them to stop. As they walk, each of them takes out a weapon and holds it to his side.

Her eyes widen. She turns her head to regard the remaining man.

The third man stands in front of her and shakes his head when she tries to use the intercom. He smiles grimly, then leans over and presses a small round disk onto the intercom housing. After that, he shows no further interest in her attempts to use the damned thing. Doesn't matter, it no longer seems to work anyway.

She sighs, crosses her arms and sits back in her chair.

No salary is worth this.

Eventually, the first two men come back from the long hallway, one of them nods curtly at the first man, who nods back and pulls out a mobile phone. He begins to text.

One of the other two men leaves through the front door. The remaining one stares at her curiously, then takes up a position near the front door, after first locking it from the inside. He glances at his watch.

OooOooO

John Watson is a creature of comfort. This is because not only is a wish for comfort part of his basic nature, but because he spent so many years being uncomfortable that he has now made comfort his fucking religion. He became used to being uncomfortable while deployed when sleeping didn't always involve a relaxing kip on a mattress, but more likely involved sleeping sitting up, leaning against a wall or his rucksack; when eating meant whatever type of prepared food came in the MRE's that were part and parcel of deployment and when taking his, err, personal comfort where he could find it often meant the back seats of jeeps or narrow bunks in darkened barracks or … okay, moving on.

John likes a good cup of tea and John knows how to make an excellent cuppa. He likes his warm jumpers and crisp toast and jam and Chinese takeaway; he likes his chair at 221B, directly opposite a certain detective's chair, in front of the fire in winter and across from the a/c unit in the summer. He likes to sit in his chair and immerse himself in the latest medical journal or book (John's a Sci Fi fan from way back, as well as a fan of the original James Bond novels, as we have seen.)

On occasion, John likes to watch crap telly and has even managed to get a certain consulting detective to watch with him, and to show, if not interest, at least to minimize his caustic comments on the script, the plot, the actors and the whole thing in general. And although he does not – ever – like finding various body parts in their fridge, as long as a certain flat mate keeps them to the experiment shelf and not the food shelf, he's willing to overlook it.

John is adaptable, that's all we're saying here. And to be honest, John has gotten used to the more bizarre aspects of life with his consulting detective. And he likes it.

John does not know, yet, that the flat at 221B was all but destroyed. Not yet.

Those are some of the things John likes.

Here are the things John loves.

John loves his sister Harriet. He is exasperated by Harry; often hurt by Harry; more or less constantly worried on Harry's behalf; wishes he could be of more help to Harry in her battle with the bottle, and will run to Harry's side, nearly at any moment she calls. He loves his sister. But he doesn't always like her. Harry feels the same way about John.

At the moment, John cannot communicate with Harry, who is in protective custody. He does not even know if Harry thinks he is dead or alive and Mycroft has not bothered to tell him. (Although he's about to find out.)

So at the moment, Harry, in a manner of speaking, has been taken away from John.

John loves Mrs. Hudson. She is the closest John has ever come to having an actual, honest to God Mum, since his own mother was indifferent to say the least and cold to the extreme. (The less said about John (and Harry's) biological mother the better.) He did love his aunt. But his aunt died shortly after John and Harry came to live with her.

They were then both left on their own.

But then came Mrs. Hudson. And she quickly filled a hole in John's life that he didn't even know was there. Mrs. Hudson became cups of tea and friendly conversation; plates of warm muffins, helpful advice, and a warm motherly presence in a decidedly male household. John loves Mrs. Hudson. And Mrs. Hudson, in turn, loves her boys.

Mrs. Hudson is currently in protective custody. John has no idea if she thinks he is dead or alive. Mycroft has not bothered to tell him. (But he's about to find out.)

Mrs. Hudson's comforting presence has, at the moment, been taken away from John.

John loved being a soldier.

John took to the military like - cliché aside - a duck to water. He was very, very good at being a soldier. He may be short, but he can kill someone very quickly and do it with a minimum of fuss and bother. He is a crack shot. He is trained in special ops (a fact not frequently known to all and John does not advertise it – ever.) He advanced quickly through the ranks, achieving Captain in record time.

John cared deeply for the men and women, the young doctors, put under his command. John taught them and protected them and fought alongside them and was prepared at a moment's notice to die with or for them. Made no difference to John. He was awarded five medals from his time spent in the Army, four of them for bravery and his actions under fire. One of them the highest honor Britain can bestow: The Victoria Cross. The Queen herself pinned this on John. While a certain consulting detective looked on.

John loved being a soldier.

That was taken away from John.

John loves being a doctor. John is proud of being a doctor, like his grandfather before him. And although John received the blasted letter telling him that he is, at least for now, no longer a doctor, now that the initial shock is past, he knows this is basically a lie.

They can take his license away from him; but no one can erase his years of medical training, his years of practicing as a doctor, his years spent performing meatball surgery in the field, nor the locum work he has engaged in at the clinic. They cannot erase the knowledge of the souls he has saved, the limbs he has operated on, the people whose lives he has touched. They cannot erase his very psyche. Although God knows, Moriarty has tried.

John loves being a doctor.

That, too, was taken away from John.

But everything else aside, and more than anything in the world, more than life itself, John loves Sherlock Holmes.

John cannot tell you when his instant attraction to Sherlock turned to intense liking. He cannot tell you the moment when liking Sherlock turned to lusting after Sherlock, and from there it was just a hop, skip and jump to _wanting_ Sherlock, in every sense of the word, including all the baggage the detective brought with him and then, _then_ came the realization he was in love _with_ Sherlock.

John does not know, exactly, when all of this occurred. Only that it has.

He can only tell you he loves Sherlock.

The feeling is entirely mutual.

John has killed for Sherlock. He has risked his life dozens of times over for Sherlock. He has on several occasions, overlooked his own imminent peril to jump in front of Sherlock with the intention of taking a bullet or taking a beating or just taking whatever seems bent on harming or killing the detective.

John has chased after Sherlock and cursed Sherlock, coddled Sherlock and fed Sherlock and looked after Sherlock, doctored and bandaged Sherlock and bathed and dressed Sherlock. (We will not speak of the undressing of Sherlock as it does not … okay, moving on.)

He has held Sherlock's head while he tossed his last meal into the toilet due to a particularly virulent flue; he has held Sherlock's hand, sitting at his bedside, while the detective recovers from injuries, both life-threatening and non-; he has checked Sherlock in and out of the hospital a dozen times over; has acted as his personal physician; has given Sherlock his flue jabs and made certain he received his yearly checkup and done all the things a good doctor does for his patient (albeit a live-in one.)

When their relationship turned personal, John insisted that Sherlock get another physician, just to keep things on the up and up. Sherlock resisted to the end but finally acquiesced. Despite this, John still, most of the times, ends up acting as Sherlock's personal physician.

And bodyguard.

John has done his level best to keep Sherlock alive in an increasingly violent occupation in a world gone mad, mainly because he discovered, almost from the day he met Sherlock Holmes, that the detective's survival instincts are, well, practically nil. It is, as the detective told him, all transport. So John does his best with it.

John Watson loves Sherlock Holmes.

But not at the moment.

At the moment, John is confused by Sherlock; hurt by Sherlock; worried sick on behalf of Sherlock and basically, so damn mad _with_ Sherlock he has no words for it.

But more than anything else in the universe, John Watson is terrified that at any hour, any minute, any second, Sherlock – as everything else in John's young life – will be taken away from him.

And this fact scares John to death.

OooOooO

James Moriarty comes to quickly. Before he even opens his eyes, he feels the cool room air as it flows over his naked upper torso. His eyes open, and he looks directly into the nearly crystalline blue frost of Sherlock Holmes' eyes. Jim's black eyes widen and he immediately begins to struggle against his bonds.

"I'd save my strength if I were you," Sherlock's deep baritone cautions.

Jim glares at the detective, then he gets a good look at Sherlock's hands.

"To what do I owe this pleasure, Sherlock? Come out to play finally?" his voice is raised in the weird sing song cadence, the soft Irish accent barely noticeable. What Sherlock does note, with more than a little satisfaction, is that the criminal's eyes widen and his breath comes in little gasps as he looks at the detective's hands.

The hands that now hold a tiny silver cylinder. A cylinder with what appears to be a sharply pointed razor blade at one end.

Sherlock places the cylinder on the table in front of him where both men can see it. Then he reaches into his jacket pocket, extracts his leather gloves, and pulls one on to his left hand. He then picks up the cylinder with the blade, and reaches for his lighter, which he has tossed onto the conference table. He proceeds to flick it, then holds the tiny blade in the blue flame.

He regards the flame and speaks almost idly to James Moriarty.

"Jim, were you aware that my maternal grandmother was French? No, probably not. Why would you even care?"

Sherlock turns the tiny knife this way and that in the blue flame.

"Do you know how they used to mark whores in the old days in Paris, Jim?" Sherlock holds the blade up in front of his eyes and regards it for a moment, shakes his head, and returns it to the flame.

Jim Moriarty's eyes never leave the flame or knife.

"What –"

Sherlock shakes his head. "Not done talking here, Jim. I'll let you know when you can speak."

"My men –" Moriarty's voice raises and his eyes widen as he sees the slim blade in the detective's hands.

"Have been most effectively dealt with, Jim. I assure you of that."

Sherlock holds the blade up again, nods and then glances at Jim's bare chest.

He leans over, but first glances up at Moriarty's dark eyes.

"Jim, I want you to hold very still now or I'll have to cut your tongue out first." His crystal eyes look into Jim's black ones almost curiously. "Do you understand me, Jim?"

Moriarty swallows, then smiles grimly. "You wouldn't dare—"

"Oh, I assure you, Jim, I will dare a great deal. Now try not to move, hmm?"

Sherlock considers the pale chest in front of him, then holds the small blade more or less directly over Moriarty's heart.

"Now where were we? Oh yes. They used to burn the fleur de lis into the skin, usually the back of the neck or the shoulder, to designate a whore."

Sherlock leans over Jim and whispers in his ear.

"And make no mistake about it, Jim, you are a whore in every sense of the word."

He flicks the now red hot blade over Jim's chest in a quick downward motion.

The criminal screams. And begins to rock in the chair. Sweat pools over his brow.

"You fucking –"

"Jim, I did ask you to remain quiet, didn't I?" Sherlock shakes his head, reaches to the table top and picks up a small roll of grey duct tape.

He tears off a strip, then presses it firmly against James Moriarty's mouth.

Then he considers the downward stroke he has just made, and casually flicks the blade in a short upward arch.

James Moriarty's eyes widen and he groans, a deep inhuman growl that erupts from somewhere in his esophagus. His hands and feet struggle against his bonds and his entire body shakes.

"Jim, try not to vomit. You'll just choke to death and I'm told it makes for a most unattractive corpse."

Sherlock holds the tiny blade in the flame of his lighter again, then leans over and flicks it again in a diagonal cut across the pale skin. Blood wells up from the cuts and begins to drip downward. Moriarty jerks violently in his bonds but cannot escape the detective's calm hands.

Sherlock considers his handiwork for a moment, nods, then moves the knife again, once, twice.

Moriarty's eyes roll up in his head and he shudders with each cut of the small blade over his skin. Sweat pours down the side of his face. His face has turned a deep mottled red and his eyes nearly bulge out of their sockets.

"James Moriarty, you are the very definition of a whore." Sherlock looks curiously into Jim's black eyes.

"You talk a good game, Jim. Always have. You talk about playing the game. You expound on your genius, how no one will ever catch you, how you're bored with the ordinary people. You talk about a lot of things, Jim."

Sherlock continues to hold the blade in the flame of his lighter. He leans over and once again whispers into the criminals' closest ear.

"But in the end, Jim, you sell your not inconsiderable talents to the highest bidder. All for money, Jim. All for money."

Sherlock casually flicks the blade a last time, at a slight angle from the last two cuts he has made. Moriarty's chest shudders and he emits a keening sound that is more animal in nature than human.

Sherlock sits back and regards the shallow cuts in James Moriarty's pale torso, the cuts that now well up with blood.  He nods, satisfied.

He places the razor and lighter on the table top and sits back to regard the other mans' now violently shaking torso.

"Of course, that story regarding the fleur de lis might be just that – a story. No way of corroborating the facts, you see. They did use the brand to mark royalty in those days."

Sherlock tilts his head to look at Jim curiously.

"Jim, you do know why I'm here today, don't you?"

His deep voice reverberates through Moriarty's chest. The criminal shuts his eyes and whimpers. The pain is coming in waves now, but he can't get a deep breath, not with the tape over his mouth. He feels as if he is going to choke on his own bile.

He stares into Sherlock's eyes with hatred.

Sherlock just shakes his head. "It's no good, Jim."

The detective tilts his head and again regards the marks on the pale chest, nearly obscured now by the blood that wells up and spills over the cuts.

"Jim, I'm afraid I didn't have time to find or bring a branding iron in the shape of the fleur de lis."

He leans forward slightly, his hands clasped in front of him and looks directly into James Moriarty's glittering, dark eyes. The eyes now filled with tears of pain and frustration.

"So I've settled for carving John Watson's initials into your chest, over your heart. Although I rather doubt that you are in possession of that particular organ." He leans back slightly and sighs.

"I do have it right, don't I, Jim? You did threaten to burn the heart out of me at one time? And we both know what that meant, Jim. And who you were referring to at the time."

Moriarty's form shakes like a tree in a storm now. He whimpers, all pretense of bravado abandoned. He pleads with his eyes.

Sherlock just shakes his head. "Jim, if I remove the tape, are you going to behave yourself and remain silent?"

He reaches out with one elegant hand and rips the tape off Jim's mouth.

"You fucking bastard! I'll burn you alive – you and your pet dog! I'll have my men cut you into so many pieces that—"

Sherlock replaces the duct tape and shakes his head. He leans over the table, picks up a single object and holds it between them, directly in front of James Moriarty's eyes.

"Jim Moriarty, before we finish here today – and make no mistake about it, Jim – we are nearly done, I want to make a fact quite clear to you."

Sherlock considers the item in his hand. He turns it this way and that. James Moriarty looks at it, mesmerized. If possible, his black eyes get even wider.

"John Watson is so far above you, Jim, that it doesn't brook discussion. You talk about the ordinary people, Jim. But you're the one who is ordinary. There's nothing special about you at all, James Moriarty. You're, basically, a common, grubby little criminal."

Sherlock considers the shaking form in front of him. He looks at the rivulets of blood that have cascaded down the pale chest and dripped into the waistband of Moriarty's very expensive trousers.

Then he glances back up to look into the black eyes again.

"And you've spoken about John Watson as if you were discussing an animal, Jim, someone's pet. But let me explain something about Doctor John Watson." Sherlock leans over Moriarty and his breath huffs out over the criminals' now sweaty face.

"John Watson is one of the most extraordinary human beings it has been my pleasure to meet. Frankly, Jim, I don't know how he even puts up with me."

Sherlock leans back and glances up and down the criminals body, from the soles of his expensive Italian leather shoes up to his pale, shaking torso, past the streams of blood, and finally into the coal black eyes.

"And he's so far above you, James Moriarty, that I have no words to describe what that makes you – "parasite" comes to mind but it's probably not accurate enough."

Sherlock stands and grips the hypodermic in his right hand. The text chime comes from the mobile in his pocket. He ignores it.

"Jim, I really have to cut this short. So let me tell you what is going to happen now."

Sherlock holds up the hypodermic. "I believe you had Doctor John Watson injected nine times with Marcus Franks' so-called designer drug. The drug that causes lasting addiction, severely disturbing dreams, intense neuromuscular pain and in high enough doses, massive internal bleeding."

Sherlock flicks the hypodermic. The movement ejects a tiny drop of liquid. James Moriarty's eyes widen even more, then he squeezes them shut and begins to shake his head from side to side.

He struggles to speak but only succeeds in making a grunting noise. He opens his eyes again to look into Sherlock's now grey gaze.

Sherlock considers the criminal again, dispassionately.

"I believe you referred to the injections as micro injections. Small amounts of the drug were injected into Watson's blood stream twice a day for the five days that you had him in captivity. Five days during which you kept him starved, restrained, and used this drug to nearly drive him slowly and steadily out of his mind. And all for money, Jim. You tortured a good man nearly to the point of death for money."

Sherlock leans over Moriarty's shaking form and bends his head to stare directly into Jim's black eyes. "It is a testament to Watson's extraordinary strength of mind and to his determination to survive your sickening experiment that you did not succeed."

Sherlock smiles grimly into Moriarty's tortured gaze.

"I want you to know that over 50x the amount of those injections is in this one hypodermic, Jim, more than five times a lethal dose and yes, this _is_ Frank's drug, Jim. We confiscated your stock of it from your operation in the Wellington museum."

Sherlock straightens, then places his left hand against the side of Moriarty's head, nearly palsied now with the violent tremors that snake through his entire body.

"Jim, you deliberately killed three other victims in London. Franks' used the drug on countless other shall we say 'test subjects' not only here in Switzerland but in two other countries as well."

Here Sherlock bends his head and looks directly into Moriarty's black eyes.

"But this isn't for them, Jim. This is for one man and one man alone. "

Sherlock maintains the pressure on the criminal's head, bends it to the side, slips the needle under the pallid skin and slowly, steadily injects the contents of the hypo into the master criminal's carotid artery. Moriarty struggles wildly against Sherlock's grip on his head to no avail. He pants through his nose like a wild animal.

Sherlock withdraws the empty syringe, then whispers into Jim's ear.

"This is for John Watson."

Sherlock tosses the empty syringe onto the table top, then swings the criminal around in the chair so he faces the glass wall.

"Nice view. Must have cost a pretty penny."

He bends over, rips the tape off Jim's mouth and stands back. Then he gathers the few items off the table top, drops them in his pockets and strides to the door.

Behind him, James Moriarty's breath comes in desperate gasps. He swings his head from side to side, then pulls his hands against his bonds, to no avail. A strange keening sound erupts from his mouth.

Sherlock flicks open his pocket knife, cuts through the zip tie that is looped around the door handles, opens the door, and walks out without a backward glance.

Behind him, Moriarty's voice finally emerges in a thin scream, which deepens as Sherlock walks down the hall.

In the lobby, one of the two agents bends over and withdraws the small disk from the intercom unit.

Moriarty's inhuman screams erupt from the box. They only increase in intensity as Sherlock, accompanied by Mycroft's two men, leave the building. The screams follow them as they walk away.

She watches them leave, glances at the intercom, then reaches over and turns the volume knob up. The screams build in sheer volume, then begin to taper off. Finally, the only sound she can hear is James Moriarty retching as he chokes on his stomach contents.

She stares after the three men.

OooOooO

In the middle of the rolling lawn, John talks and Jake listens. At John's request, Jake stops short. John turns to regard him, his hands plunged in the pockets of his jacket.

"John – I can't. Not until. You haven't been—"

John shuts his eyes and takes a deep breath. He counts to five, then opens his eyes again to find the agent regarding him.

"I need the practice, Jake. I haven't fired a gun in – what? Five weeks? And I have no memory of that incident. Damn it, he's out there – _out_ there, alone." John runs a hand through his hair, winces at the length.

"What is it going to take to get someone to listen to me?"

He faces the agent silently, military man to military man.

"For fuck's sake, I'll talk with Maggie or Dennison. If they revoke –"

Jake sighs. "No one's explained how it works, John. But I imagine either Oakton or Dennison has to give a diagnosis. Then –"

"Then your boss, of course, makes the final decision," John says determinedly. "Or your boss's idiot brother."

Jake just nods. He regards the doctor with sympathy.

John shakes his head in disbelief, looks around the grounds. He turns to look at the long drive and thinks of Sherlock. And his eyes blaze.

He turns back to Jake.

"Bloody hell, Jake, do I look like I want to blow my brains out?" he demands.

Jake regards the man in front of him. He shakes his head.

"No. Actually, you just look like you want to shoot the walls," he says.

John laughs, a bitter laugh, tinged with something Jake Lynn cannot identify.

Jake frowns. "What? What did I say?"

OooOooO

John sits alone in the library, his head in his hands. He hears the text chime, and fumbles for his new phone in his jeans pocket. He has nearly forgotten that it's _in_ his pocket, but he continues to carry it around more for habit's sake than anything. Frankly, every time he sees the bloody phone, he gets mad at Mycroft all over again.

He reads the text. And his eyes widen. The small boulder that has taken up residence in his chest instantly dissolves. His eyes fill but he brushes an angry hand across them before anyone can notice.

**John**

**7 pm Flight**

**Lynn knows which runway**

**He's safe.**

**MH**

John's knees want to buckle. But he swallows and he calls Jake Lynn, who answers on the first ring. It's a small victory. But at least the phone works in its most basic aspect.

He arranges to meet the agent at the side entrance in twenty minutes. Then he drops the phone back in the pocket of his jeans and hurries to their room to shower, change and have a quiet breakdown far away from any of the other manor residents.

And as angry as he is with Sherlock Holmes, all he can think as he hurries is, _He's Alive. He's Alive. He's Alive._

Later, he thinks how odd it is that Mycroft texted him. He knows the elder Holmes brother prefers to call. Then he remembers their last conversation and realizes it's not odd at all. Not only does Mycroft want to prove to him that the phone is of some use but he doesn't want another verbal confrontation with a certain exArmy doctor.

_"Wise move on Mycroft's part,"_ John decides.

Either way, in a few short hours, Sherlock will be back. Back at the manor, safe and sound.

And then John can kill him.

OooOooO

John Watson drives like he does everything else in life, with single-minded purpose.

When he comes out the side entrance, his hair still damp, he finds Agent Lynn already in the driver's seat of the Land Cruiser.

John walks up to the car, crosses his arms and waits.

Jake Lynn looks at John's stance, his eyes widen, and he gets out of the car and walks around to the passenger's side.

"Key's in the ignition," he says quietly.

John nods once, curtly, and slides into the driver's seat.

Before he starts the ignition, John takes what he considers to be his all but useless mobile phone, places it on the dash on the small sticky pad - presumably a certain detective can text him on it - and then tosses his new billfold which contains a few pound notes, some change, and his driver's license in the console.

John has no other form of ID on him, other than the license. His medical card, identifying him as a doctor, his National Health card, every single piece of paper that identifies him as John H. Watson was lost in the Wellington.

He refuses to think what purposes Moriarty might have for it all and hopes to God that it was all trashed. But he highly doubts it. In the end, he thinks it probably doesn't matter. After all, he is, technically, still dead. Everything will have to be replaced. John doesn't even wince when he thinks of the difficulties that lie ahead in his, he hopes, imminent resurrection.

He'll let Mycroft Holmes worry about all of that. He has enough to worry about, babysitting what technically amounts to a six-foot two-year old child.

He pulls out of the impossibly long driveway, turns left toward London, and remains utterly silent, his thoughts full of various ways to strangle a certain detective. They stop only once, for petrol and the loo.

_"Jake has the gift of silence,"_ John thinks. He is grateful for this, as he has next to nothing to say to the agent, or to any of Mycroft's men at the moment.

John has to remind himself that no matter how "friendly" he has become with the agents on duty at the manor – they remain loyal to Mycroft. They are Mycroft's men, not his. And that includes Jake Lynn, who John has come to regard as a friend. Consequently, the two men barely talk during the drive.

They are nearing the airport before John breaks the silence. And then it is just two sentences.

"You might want to call your boss shortly."

Jake turns from perusal of the scenery to look at John.

John just nods as he drives. "I am going to bloody well kill his brother, once he lands, and he'll want to send someone to collect the body."

Jake sighs. They do not speak again until they reach the airport.

As they park, John's heart thuds in his chest.

He narrows his eyes as he watches the private jet come in for a landing.

His text chime sounds in his pocket. Without taking his eyes off the approaching jet, beautiful in its sleek lines, John fishes in the pocket of his jeans. He holds the screen up to his eyes.

**Just how MAD are we talking here?**

**SH**

John's eyes narrow. He drops the phone back in his pocket. Then leans back against the Land Rover, and crosses his arms over his chest. And waits.

The jet lands.

OooOooO


	16. Chapter 16

**These lads, in their current incarnation, belong to the BBC and not to me, and in their former incarnation, to the estate of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.**

**But I'll fight alongside them any day of the year - and count myself damn proud to do so.**

**THE BOYS OF BAKER STREET**

**CH. 16**

**PROMISE: MEN. GOING. AT. IT.**

**(And from this point on, I don't warn about this. It's just a given. Is there any space left in these pages? Any letters left over in the English alphabet? Yes? Then just assume that Men (and others) are Going At It – Every. Damn. Chance. They. Get. War is coming - and when at War …)**

**WARNING: Literary Exposition. No Apologies.**

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It is NEARLY at this point in our narrative that a series of mistakes, errors in judgment, really, occur. I feel it is only fair to pause and enter "expositionary mode," in order to give you fair advance warning of the following, so you can make an informed decision as to whether or not you wish to continue reading after this chapter. If not, I totally understand and no hard feelings.

These errors in judgment – one rather large, the rest very small – lead to the following circumstances and happenings (although NOT in THIS chapter, nor necessarily in this order. And No, we're nowhere near the end. So take heart. )

27 minutes of sheer hell on earth for Mycroft Holmes.

The death of an unfortunate minor administrative official in Mycroft's organization – female. But she never knows what hits her, so if you can take comfort in that, please do so. Nevertheless, dead is dead and it really ticks Mycroft off.

27 minutes of sheer hell on earth for Anthea – and some minor bruising. Which really REALLY ticks Mycroft off.

The deliberate targeting of one imported, totally restored, breathtaking, vintage Harley Davidson motorcycle, brilliant yellow, being ridden at the time by one exArmy doctor (John is not seriously hurt at this time, other than a few bruises, so relax. We will not, however, bring up his wandering mental state in this summary. I make no promises when it comes to the condition of the Harley.)

The confusion and minor heartbreak of the male sub adjutant to the Korean delegation.

A missed opportunity for sex, romance and the eventual leading of "happily ever after" lives by 1. A Detective Inspector of New Scotland Yard and 2. The British Government (Damn. It would have been lovely, too. Timing, as they say, is everything.)

The near death of one of Mycroft's agents, a damn good man and lovely human being in his own right. (But he isn't killed, so take heart and enjoy the mystery.)

The complete and near total destruction of – let's table that one for a moment, as it doesn't come up for two or three chapters. But it leads to lasting repercussions, including serious questions being raised in Parliament and some very real (but understandable) confusion on behalf of her Majesty the Queen. (Congratulations on your Diamond Jubilee, Your Grace, by the way!)

A missed opportunity for romance on behalf of a certain Agent in the employ of Mycroft Holmes. (But it's okay, he makes up for it later.)

A shattered window…in a certain bedroom … which will remain nameless at this point in time.

Fifteen point seven hours of terror and heartache for Sherlock Holmes, which, in turn, leads to a certain recurring dream surfacing again – and again – and again – and never really letting go for – well, forever. (I'd like to make you feel better about this one, but I can't. Sorry.)

BAMF John. (If the spectacle of our Army Doctor and Capt. eventually going all, well, MACHO and TAKE CHARGE, scares you, please look away. You've been warned.) Doesn't happen in this chapter, though, so you still have time to switch to another Fic and get settled in.

The consequential formation of a fighting group hereafter and forevermore known as WATSON'S WARRIORS – (Seriously, don't TELL me you didn't see this one coming.)

Someone takes a shot at an Apache helicopter – (No, Prince Harry isn't piloting it at the time, but it's a near thing. And, at last count, the U.K. had 69 of these. They still have 69, so no worries there.)

BAMF Mummy – no explanation necessary. Where do you think Mycroft and Sherlock GET it from? NO, as we said before, NOT their Father. (Who isn't deceased, by the way; what made you think he was? But he doesn't come into it until Book Three, Part Two ) (Yes, Book Three. This is a trilogy. Please try to keep up.)

Bravery under Fire

Command Decisions

Everlasting Love and Commitment

Personal Sacrifice

Murder and Attempted Murder – possibly successful (Devious, much? Yup! Deal. )

John kisses another man on the mouth – tenderly and with much feeling - and it isn't Sherlock – but Sherlock's okay with it. (No tongue, if that makes you feel any better.)

Two Knighthoods

One minor heart attack (No, _not_ John. How many times do I have to reassure you? Jeeezz)

Guns – lots of them. In no particular order. Also, high velocity rifles and myriad deadly weaponry.

Gun oil, the use of – to clean all the guns

Gun oil, the smell of – (which acts as an aphrodisiac on a certain genius Consulting Detective. A certain Army doctor, being well aware of this fact, deliberately exploits it for personal , er, gain.)

EBay

Two consenting adults enjoy sex with each other while listening to **Spandau Ballet – _True,_** continuously looped. (I am _not_ responsible for this. I just report the facts. But I felt you should be warned ahead of time, in case you wanted to, you know, go make a sandwich or something. Trust me, you'll have time.)

Boston – (the group, not the American city)

Toto – (the group, not the dog. And if you ask "what dog?" you are way too young to be reading this Fic. Shut your browser down now!)

 _Werewolves of London_ – the song, not the actual…er….okay, then. (But if you ever spot one, drop me a PM. I promise to do the same.) (And does anyone else miss Warren Zevon?)

SPECIAL OPS – I can only tell you so much about this – as afterward, I'd have to kill you. Go ask John, as he is the one who – oh, sod it. Just read on.

Barbed wire / Duct Tape / Handcuffs / Pocket knives / Multiple explosive devices

Diet Coke – iced, used as a chaser to chemical interrogation (don't we ALL use Diet Coke for this reason?)

Chemicals – lots and lots of sodding chemicals. Also, multiple injections of same. (Truly, there are so many damn drugs in this book, the authorities should shut this Fic down and confiscate all the words.)

Sex Under Fire as a Reaffirmation of Life, Love and Continuing Happiness.

Sex – Just because (there are currently 252 of you who _only_ read this thing for the sex. Yes, I know who you are. You can run, but you can't hide.)

Three Marriage Proposals – Yes, I said Three. Two of them stick. The third is just heartbreaking.

The scaring away of one fluffy kitten, (but Lori finds it again and eventually takes it home to live with her and Joe, so it works out.)

The eventual and very real possibility of the total, absolutely horrid, nightmarishly painful death of damn near every single person in this narrative, including our heroes. And NO, this isn't a tease to get you to keep reading and No, I'm not even going to try to make you feel better about this one. You'll just have to keep reading. Or bow out now. (But please remember I said "possibility.")

And, for those of you who are really REALLY antsy about this story – and with apologies to Mr. Goldman - let me just say this: no one is eaten by eels at this time, including the kitten.

Feel better?

Good.

For those of you who have made the conscious decision to hang in there with me, thank you and I truly appreciate it. I'll do my damnedest not to abuse your trust.

For all others, it's been real. Thank you for being lovely, lovely Readers and I wish you all the best over in the fluffy lit section. Don't get sick on all the sugar. (And don't forget to Review as you leave the building.)

OooOooO

**Now before ANY of that can take place, we return to, well, Sherlock's return from Switzerland and John's actions – and re-actions. Remember I said you had two dark chapters left? And you've already had one of them? Well, this is NOT the other one. Not yet. That is still to come.**

**First, a quick recap:**

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When last we saw John, he was leaning up against the Land Rover, arms crossed over his chest, ankles crossed at the - ankles – mentally pummeling one Consulting Detective for his actions. He is watching the jet come in for a landing. It is early evening, dark already, the moon has risen and he can see – barely – thunderclouds on the far horizon. But he spares no time for the night sky or the weather.

When last we saw Sherlock, he is sitting in his seat in the private jet, upon final approach, thinking over his actions and coming to the conclusion that, truth be told, the dispatching of James Moriarty, in such a highly effective manner, gives him an immense feeling of satisfaction. Sherlock does not gloat, however. He's just relieved and not a little apprehensive.

It is probably politically correct, at this moment in time, to say something to the effect that deliberately killing another human being is wrong; that the law should have come into it and been allowed to 1. Make an arrest; 2. Fingerprint and book said James Moriarty – and then provide him with legal counsel; 3. Jail said person for, oh several months, while the truth was chased down, pummeled into submission, and morphed into something that no longer resembles the truth in any way, shape or form and eventually, somewhere down the road, allowing Mycroft to dispatch the criminal in some appropriate manner - taking into consideration the current laws (and feeling for) capital punishment in the U.K. (as, most assuredly, Moriarty would have been returned to England to stand trial.)

Well, sod all that.

What's done is done and Sherlock is quietly satisfied with the outcome, although personally sickened at his lengthening mental list of "Things That Have Been Done to John Watson" in Sherlock's name. *

As Sherlock disembarks, he does two things: First, he totally dismisses Moriarty from his mind; he hopes, forever. This is Sherlock's only important error. (He makes one more but it's not dire. This one, however, has lasting repercussions for everyone concerned.)

And he thinks the following: _"Is there any chance at all of coming out of this with a decent shag, Before John murders me? And is he going to punch me now – or wait until we're back at the manor – and then punch me? And how long is he going to remain mad before we can begin shagging again?"_

That he is, at some time in the evening, going to be punched, he has no doubt. None at all. And, to be fair to Sherlock, he feels that whatever John Watson does to him, he most definitely deserves. He hopes John avoids his teeth and nose.

That is basically our detective's frame of mind as he walks steadily toward John Watson in the evening light.

Oh, yes, Sherlock has one more thought – more of an overwhelming emotion, really.

He has just dispatched one of the most sought-after criminal minds in the world.

But he has not done this for fame, glory, the thrill of the chase, because it was the right thing to do to protect the world and innocent lives from the murdering psychopath known as James Moriarty - or for any other altruistic reason.

He has done this for one man – the love of his life – John Watson.

And it is at this point that basic human nature comes into play. Sherlock has fought and won a battle for his sweetheart – for the continued existence of the only person on the entire bloody planet that Sherlock loves more than life.

And – he's incredibly sexually excited by this fact.

He can't help it. He's a biological male, like any other biological male. And biology – at times – is a BITCH.

The detective tells himself he should not be physically aroused by this turn of events. He repeatedly tells himself this, as he walks toward his love, who leans up against the Land Rover, watching his approach. He tells himself this even as his designer trousers become incredibly tight in one certain area and entirely uncomfortable to boot.

Sherlock is quite glad for the cover of nightfall as he walks determinedly toward John Watson.

The fact that he is probably going to be punched by this man he has just fought for is beside the point. John is HIS. Now and forever. End of story. Sherlock has just proved that John is HIS, once again, and sooner or later, probable nose-punching aside, Sherlock is going to bloody well prove to John Watson just who, exactly, the Army doctor belongs to. Just in case there was any doubt in said Army doctor's mind.

Now if this were a movie – Sherlock would walk straight into John's arms. John would open said arms and encircle his sweetheart. They would murmur tender nothings to each other. And ride off into the sunset. There would be violins. And guitars. Spanish guitars.

Nope. Not gonna happen.

John, on the other hand – well, John Hamish Watson is just damn mad. Spectacularly so. This has the effect of causing him to a. narrow his eyes at one Sherlock Holmes when he finally walks down the stairs of the jet (" _Nice lines,"_ John thinks – the Cessna Citation Excel - not Sherlock) and b. when he actually SEES Sherlock and Sherlock is alive, breathing, apparently well, and walking toward him with a grim yet resigned look on his beautiful face, John becomes momentarily confused.

There is a war being waged within John's mind and psyche. On the one hand, he experiences immense, overwhelming relief – to the point that he wants to curl up in some dark, quiet corner and have a minor breakdown – and the second feeling, well, we've told you about that one.

Does John want to kill Sherlock – after first punching his lights out – OR first tear Sherlock's clothes off right there on the bloody tarmac and have his angry way with him, onlookers be damned? And _then_ punch him out?

Yes, I know what 252 of you vote for, but it's John's decision, not yours.

What strikes John as Sherlock walks toward him is this: that as incredibly angry as he is with Sherlock at this moment in time, he is also filled with intense sexual desire for the detective. He does not know why.

(Yes, I see those same 252 raised hands.) We all know John is a biological male and he is responding to the very real knowledge that the man who strides purposefully toward him has just fought – and won – a battle for John's life. For **him** , as it were. And on some very primal level, John recognizes (no, his libido recognizes) that he – John Watson – more than ever BELONGS to this man striding up to him.

John is Sherlock's. For as long as Sherlock wants him. And for whatever purpose Sherlock desires. And believe me, John Watson can think of any number of purposes to which he can be – Okay. Here it is. If you recall anything at all about Biology 101, please remember this: Every day on this planet, species fight (and die) for one thing and one thing alone: the overwhelming biological imperative to mate.

And there we have it.

John does not fool himself into believing that Sherlock Holmes went up against Moriarty because of any game, for any altruistic purpose, because it was the right thing to do, or in order to protect innocent lives, or possibly, to prove himself to Lestrade or Mycroft or anyone for that matter, or for fame, fortune or internet headlines. He knows quite well why Sherlock lied and left. He knows this and frankly, his libido knows this as well.

But John does not look at things like this. He tells himself that he should not be feeling lust – he should be overwhelmingly relieved that Sherlock survived the encounter (he is) and he tells himself to hold onto his anger over the fact that Sherlock just up and left him (he does, or tries to, up to a certain point.)

What any of this has to do with John's jeans suddenly becoming too tight for him to breathe properly escapes him. He is quite glad of the dark, however, as the detective walks up to him.

Okay, hope everyone got that.

Now here is the last of the exposition. (Do pay attention, because here comes the important bit): Irregardless of what you, personally, feel should happen next, it is not up to you. Sorry. John's actions – and reactions – in the upcoming scenes contain clues to his very real and worsening mental, emotional and physiological, chemical-induced condition.

Eventually, quite, quite soon, John goes round the twist. He can't help it and this should never, ever be held against the doctor in any way, shape or fashion. (Please never bring this up to him.) Sherlock certainly doesn't – and the detective knows quite well what is happening to the love of his life (due to multiple warnings tendered by not one but three medical professionals). (You did read Ch. 14, right? Once again, try to keep up.)

And Sherlock's prepared to deal. Or so he thinks. But then reality rears up and slaps him in the face. In just a handful of days, things go from bad to worse. And he finds himself facing the possibility of having to make a horrid decision.

Exposition over, we now switch back to the author's original "voice," which you are all no doubt accustomed to after nearly 300,000 words. (If you've followed _both_ GRACE and BOYS, that is.)

Those of you who have elected to decamp – please do so now.

OooOooO

**Okay. Everyone else all settled in and ready? Comfy socks? Lap blanket? Cuppa? Crisps? Mobile silenced? Tissues handy?**

**Excellent!**

**HERE WE GO THEN.**

As Sherlock walks toward him, hands in the pockets of his short leather jacket, John is struck by how incredibly young Sherlock is, at times. It's not something that John thinks about a lot. They are, after all, extremely close in age. But in the early evening light, as the detective gets near, John realizes not only how young Sherlock occasionally appears – but how unlikely it is that the younger Holmes is even alive.

John found out quite soon in their working relationship, that Sherlock's survival skills nowhere near equal his own. This is to be expected. Sherlock was never in the military; he does not have the survival training that John has undergone. The fact that he is still alive, and hale and hearty, has fate and circumstances to thank more than anything. Sherlock frequently – John thinks – just gets lucky.

It does not occur to John that Sherlock has survived this long because he now has something, make that _someone,_ to survive for.

That Sherlock loves him, John now has no doubt. But John has never been more uncertain as to whether or not Sherlock _needs_ him. Even as he thinks this, John knows it's a ridiculous question on his part. He is one-half of a working relationship that functions as a single cohesive unit. He has saved the detective's life – both their lives - on several occasions. He has very real survival instincts that the detective not only values, but has come to rely upon. John knows, in his heart and mind, that Sherlock does need him. But the sting of being left behind when Sherlock goes after the master criminal rocks John to his very core. He thinks and feels things that he ordinarily would not think or feel – all the while he _knows_ these thoughts and emotions are wrong.

He's that conflicted.

Yes, Sherlock loves him. But what form that emotion takes in the man's heart, John has no idea. He has some inkling that if you could map the inside of Sherlock’s heart and head, the subsequent diagrams would be odd – and complicated – to the extreme. And probably bear absolutely no relation to any other human being's on the planet, including Mycroft's.

That Sherlock is here, now, alive and well, and walking determinedly toward John, tells John two more things: Moriarty is well and truly dead – John knows that nothing else would satisfy Sherlock. And it tells him that Sherlock obviously went about the task at hand with grim determination, most probably helped along by Mycroft and his team of agents. After all, the detective has been gone less than 12 hours. 12 hours, during which time, the world has changed.

John's head tells him why Sherlock lied and left him. His heart tells him exactly the same thing. He knows quite well why he was not taken along on this vendetta. He understands Sherlock. He may be one of the few human beings on the entire sodding planet who actually does understand Sherlock Holmes. He gets it. Really.

But none of this takes away from the fact that, right now, he's so mad, so bloody angry, he does not want to listen to either his head or his heart.

Nor does he want to acknowledge the incredible tightening of his jeans behind his zipper and how that tightening has led to being increasingly uncomfortable at the moment, if not in downright physical pain.

When Sherlock walks up to John and stands there staring into his Army doctor's dark eyes, John nods curtly at him, once. Then, without taking his eyes off the detective, John yanks the passenger door open. Sherlock glances into John's determined eyes, then mentally sighs and gets into the front passenger seat. John slams the door behind him. He then makes eye contact with Jake, opens the door to the drivers' side, slides in and starts the engine.

Jake Lynn quietly climbs into one of the back seats without comment.

They are well away from the airport before John says a single word. And then he can't bring himself to even look at Sherlock. Instead, he stares straight ahead as he drives the Land Rover.

"So … dead then?" his voice sounds cool even to his own ears.

"Dead." Sherlock says, just as cooly.

They do not speak for another hour.

OooOooO

"Do you want to pull over and punch me now – or punch me later?"  
Sherlock asks grimly.

It's been one hour since he and John have spoken to each other and Jake Lynn hasn't said a damned word either.

Sherlock turns his head to stare at the space between him and John. If they were both riding in the back seat, they could at least hold hands. As it is, John drives with grim determination – and does his damnedest to ignore the man who sits beside him.

He makes a good job of it, too.

Sherlock turns his head to stare out his window at the dark scenery. He misses riding in taxi cabs, as they always do in London.

London. The word sparks Sherlocks' senses – London, his first love. London, with it's sights and sounds and smells. London. Their flat at Baker Street. Baker Street. He winces. God, he's going to have to tell John, now that John is better. Now that he can process the information.

He's going to have to tell him about the destruction, the senseless utter wholesale destruction of all they own. He's going to have to tell him about their flat and Mrs. Hudson's flat. And he's going to have to take it on the chin for keeping it a secret this long.

Sherlock's not even certain himself what happened or why. Just that it did.

Baker Street and Mrs Hudson and the kitchen and his experiments and their bedroom – and their bed. The bed Sherlock slept in exactly once since the time John was taken – and then for one hour only. He can't remember if he asked Mycroft if the bed, too, was destroyed. He assumes this is a given.

Baker Street. John. The two are interwoven in his senses and his vision spikes and Sherlock finds himself looking out the window at the dark, wishing…wishing…

"I'm not going to punch you, Sherlock," John says coldly.

John hears the soft intake of breath and then – at last - he turns his head to look at the face he loves above all others and to momentarily glance into the strange eyes he loves more than life, before he returns his attention to the road in front of him.

"I'm not going to punch you, Sherlock. You're alive."

John does not turn his head back to look Sherlock again, but keeps his gaze front and center, as if he doesn't trust his eyes - traitorous eyes - not to fill and overflow.

"You're alive. And you could so easily not be."

The detective says nothing. But he frowns in the dark interior of the Rover.

"It wasn't that much of a risk, John, I—"

"Not a risk, Sherlock? It wasn't a game, Sherlock. It was life and death and this time you won. You won because Mycroft's men were there. You won despite the fact that –"

John breaks off and stares at the night. He takes a deep breath – and stops talking altogether. He never finishes his statement: "Despite the fact that I wasn't with you."

Both of them have forgotten Jake Lynn, who sits in the back seat, and tries so hard not to listen and fails so miserably at it. His shoulder blades itch and he squirms slightly in his seat. God, won't they get to the manor soon so these two can sort this out? Jake is a decent man and he feels like a voyeur - listening in on words that should be spoken behind closed doors.

The two men who sit in the front seats of the Land Rover remain silent, alone with their thoughts.

Sherlock glances at the space between him and John – and toys with the idea of extending his hand across the divide. Presumably, the doctor can drive with one hand. But, he thinks, if John does not reach out to take the detective's hand in his, he will not be able to abide the rejection.

He waits, instead, for the doctor to extend his hand first. He waits in vain.

John stares straight in front of him, his thoughts in turmoil. Holding hands with Sherlock at this moment is the last thing on his mind.

Besides, if he extends his hand and the detective does not take it, he feels he cannot deal with the rejection. He's already been rejected enough in the past 24 hours. He cannot take one instance more.

Both men appear to be totally occupied by what is going on outside their respective windows. And both stupid, clueless men sit there, sexually aroused by the turn of events – biology again - wish they were touching each other, and spend the entire long drive back to the manor in dead silence.

Sherlock rides with his hands in his lap, fidgeting with his mobile.

John drives with both hands on the wheel and continues to stare at the road.

Jake Lynn just sits there and stares out his window, his face red with embarrassment.

At one point, about halfway point home, Sherlock glances over at John and notes the doctor's hands, sees how they grip the steering wheel, tense, white-knuckled. Sherlock can see no tremor in the left hand, which means the doctor is most assuredly under stress. He raises one eyebrow and briefly studies John's profile. But he says nothing.

John reads his thoughts without even turning his head.

"Let it go, Sherlock," John says grimly. "Just – let it go."

Sherlock nods in the dark. A rock has taken up residence in his throat. He turns his head back to the window and stares out into the darkness. And bloody hell, but he's incredibly uncomfortable in these bloody trousers.

As John drives he thinks about Moriarty being dead. It's odd, that word – _dead._

Maybe it _was_ Sherlock's place to dispatch the madman. John's not sure about that one.

John remembers having Moriarty in his sights, as he sat there on the floor of the clinic – just before the muzzle flash.

And this is all John remembers of the master criminal from that point on.

" _Sherlock tells me I killed Sebastian Moran. But I have no memory of this and that memory might never surface."_

But whoever's hand did the deed, it was a given that John was supposed to BE there with Sherlock. This was understood between the two of them.

To be perfectly honest here, John feels cheated. His mind tells him this is irrational – the psychopath is, after all, dead. This is a good thing for all concerned, not only the world in general, but Sherlock and John in particular.

But he feels cheated. He cannot help this feeling and it is this, more than any other emotion, that serves to fuel John's anger. Moriarty put them both through so much shite – and in the end, he sat there on his arse in the manor – while Sherlock took matters into his own hands.

And it is this that John wonders if he will ever be able to forgive.

But it is his last tiny thought that leaves him bereft and cold inside - the horrid thought that he tries in vain to push down as deep as it will go into his subconscious - the thought that perhaps, after all, he has always been and will always be a liability to Sherlock Holmes.

After all, it was because of him, John Watson, that Sherlock went after James Moriarty – and could have been killed doing so.

John shudders – and keeps driving in silence. But as John drives, his mind goes over and over and over these events. Until he's mentally exhausted and emotionally confused. And bloody hell, but he's uncomfortable in these bloody jeans.

OooOooO

When they return to the manor, John parks, gets out of the Land Rover, hands the keys to Jake Lynn, but instead of going into the manor, he walks away from Sherlock, away from the mansion, out onto the rolling lawn. He walks for a few hundred feet, then just stands there in the dark, his back toward the house. The floodlights are not lit, but the detective can easily see John's form silhouetted in the moonlight that cascades over the lawns.

Sherlock nods at Jake Lynn, who nods back. The agent goes on into the house.

Sherlock follows behind John and then watches as the doctor finally comes to a stop and seems to be lost in thought, his hands plunged into the pockets of his coat. He faces the far lawns, the orchard and small bridges, the creek and lake. His still form is utterly quiet. He does not turn as the detective walks behind him on the soft winter grass.

Momentarily at a loss, Sherlock hesitates, then comes up to stand directly behind John, in the dark. Sherlock looks at the dark figure in front of him, then tilts his head back and looks up at the night sky.

The moon casts its bright light over the winter lawns, elongates their shadows, his and John's, and paints the landscape with an incandescent glow. Clouds have moved in and the wind, warmer now then it has been for months, has picked up. It shreds the clouds and sends them flying across the face of the nearly full moon. He cannot see a single star. Just the moon and the racing clouds. And far away, he can just make out the huge billowing forms of thunderclouds as they amass on the dark horizon. The warming trend continues and the detective can smell rain in the air. It will be on them before morning.

"How much longer?" he thinks. "I want to take John, take him and go home, away from this place – Mycroft, move your bloody arse."

Out loud all he says is, "John?"

John flinches slightly. It's dark out here but his figure is easily visible in the bright moonlight. He doesn't turn as Sherlock walks right up against his back and stands there.

He must be aware that the detective stands more or less directly behind him but he does not turn or acknowledge his presence.

The detective wants to reach out; he wants to touch John. He wants to touch John and hold John and pull him into his embrace and bury his head in John's hair, painted silver now by the moonlight. He wants to inhale John and fill his senses with John and get lost in John, out here in the quiet dark, in the moonlit landscape.

He does none of these things. He keeps his hands in the pockets of his jacket.

Neither man speaks.

Then – "Who do you think you are?" John's voice is cold, quiet. He does not turn.

Sherlock frowns at the doctor's back.

"I mean it, Sherlock, just who the bloody hell do you think you are?" John's form straightens and he finally turns around to face the detective in the dark.

The moonlight is incredibly bright and he can see his lover’s face clearly.

"John, I –"

John shakes his head and whether or not the detective can see him in the dark is beside the point.

"You've pulled some shite before, Sherlock, but this – this takes it." The doctor takes one step, just one, but it puts him more or less up against the man in front of him.

He tilts his head back slightly. He can clearly see the detective's features in the moonlight.

"We had an understanding, Sherlock. Neither one of us does this. Goes off alone like you just did. You don't get to _do_ this, Sherlock."

Sherlock frowns as he looks slightly down at John's eyes, or what he can see of them in the dark.

"Well, if it's 'going off on our own' you want to talk about, John –"

John shakes his head again and takes his hands out of his pockets to grab onto Sherlock's jacket.

"No. Nope. Don't even go there. Don't bring that day up to me, Sherlock. It's one thing not to mention a damned phone call." He yanks on the jacket and the detective actually leans slightly forward at the insistent pull.

"You lied. You lied and you got on a damn plane and you left the damn country and bloody hell, Sherlock Holmes – I couldn't even reach you. I didn't know where the hell you were. Mycroft wouldn't tell me a thing."

John gets up in Sherlock's face – and that is not easy to do when the man you are confronting is a half-foot taller than you are. But he does it nonetheless.

"John – I couldn't tell you where I was going." Sherlock's voice is calm to the extreme, but there's something in the tone that gives John pause. He raises one eyebrow and stares back at the impossible eyes, gone silver in the moonlight.

"Don't you dare," he warns. "Don't you even dare make this about me and my 'problem' as you put it."

John gives the jacket front a tiny shove, then releases his hands and takes a small step back.

He puts his hands back in his pockets and glances around the landscape, then back at Sherlock, who hasn't said another damn word.

Sherlock stares at John. "I couldn't tell you where I was going because you would have tried to come along," Sherlock says, as if speaking to a child.

John shuts his eyes, counts to five, then opens them again.

"You and Mycroft. You and Mycroft and Dennison and Oakton and every bloody person in this bloody place! You treat me like I'm five years old, Sherlock, like I'm a bloody five-year-old and made out of china or something." John takes another step back as he's afraid he's going to throw a punch any moment.

"I'm not dying, Sherlock. I'm not a bloody terminal patient. And I'm still one half of this working relationship. Jesus Christ! You have to see what you did today, Sherlock. Why I'm so damned mad I can't think – I can't see straight." His hands grip in his pockets.

"John, you would have tried to follow me," the detective says, his tone gone cold. "And if you did, he might have – I couldn't risk – oh hell!" The detective explodes.

He runs a hand through his dark curls and tries to calm his breathing down. He looks away from the doctor, takes a deep breath, then looks back.

John just stands there, his fists clenched by his side. He stares murder at the detective, but Sherlock can't see his expression in the dark.

He just sees the man he loves, angry and hurt and vibrating with pain.

Sherlock straightens up to his full height and sighs. "I wish you'd just punch me and get it over with," he tells John Watson.

John continues to look at him. He shakes his blonde head. "Do you think this what it's about, Sherlock? One or two punches thrown and everything's all better?"

John laughs. There's something about the tone of the laugh that makes Sherlock's eyes widen. His senses go on alert and he becomes utterly still as he watches the man he loves rant and rave, there in front of him.

John shakes his head, then runs a steady hand through the too long spikes.

"I don't even – I can't seem to get across to you the enormity of what you—"

He breaks off, his chest heaving. His eyes see Sherlock standing there in front of him, but his eyes are treacherous and they suddenly fill.

John shuts his own eyes and dips his head. He takes one deep breath and deliberately unclenches his hands by his sides. Without opening his eyes, he says, "Sherlock…I couldn't reach you. Not by phone or text, the bloody useless thing Mycroft gave me wouldn't even—"

"I asked him to do that, John," Sherlock says quietly. He bends slightly, just slightly, so his Army doctor can see his face more clearly. That is, if John ever opens his eyes and looks at him.

John shakes his head and keeps his eyes closed. "Sherlock…I. Could. Not. Reach. You." He finally opens his eyes and raises his head to regard the other man. The moonlight is brilliant and throws the detective's features into high relief. John looks at the arched brows, the planes of Sherlock's cheeks and nose and chin.

"I couldn't reach you. I couldn't help you" he says, his voice breaking. "That's what this is about, Sherlock. Not about some ego trip you think I may be on. " He looks away to the dark lawns, then back to his lover's steady gaze. "I – I have to know that I can …reach you, Sherlock. I have to be there. Be there when you need me."

He looks at Sherlock straight on, his eyes full of pain. And is so very glad they stand in the dark. He doesn't want the detective to see him like this.

"Sherlock – it's all I have. This knowledge that when you need me – I'm there. There for you. It's all I – … I can't –"

John turns away from his partner, turns his back to Sherlock in the dark, and plunges his hands back in the pockets of his coat. He lowers his head and just stands there, takes a few deep breathes – and goes still.

" _It's no use. He'll never get it. He'll never understand this need I have to protect him. To save him – most of the time from himself,"_ John thinks tiredly. He looks across the dark lawn in the direction of the orchards, the creek and small lake. Suddenly his eyes fill and he feels his self-control slipping. Sod it, he's not going to let this man do this to him. Not again. Not ever again. And damn the chemicals in his system anyway.

At a loss for words, Sherlock looks at the man in front of him, and becomes aware that John's shoulders shake, that fine tremors run through the small body in front of him. He begins to reach for his mobile.

" _Oh, God, where is Dennison? John needs an injection and I need to get him out of this cold. It's warmer but not that much warmer. The doctor shouldn't be out here. He's not recovered, not by a long shot. We have so far to go still. Hell, it was just last night that he –we can fight inside just as well as out here."_

Then he hears the sound, all the more heartbreaking because it's so very quiet, so unbearably small.

Sherlock realises suddenly, with a punch to the gut, that John is not having an attack.

John is crying.

Quietly, trying hard not to make a sound, but the doctor is crying nonetheless.

The doctor's shoulders shake and Sherlock sees as John lifts his left hand and swipes it across his eyes. John does not put his hand back in his pocket.

He bows his head and keeps both hands by his sides, fists clenched.

John is crying. Alone in the dark.

 _John is crying,_ Sherlock thinks. _I've done this. This is because of my actions. I left him. I lied and I left him._

_Hold him you fool. Just – hold him. Don't let him go through this alone._

"John?" Sherlock whispers in the dark but his voice carries the few inches in front of him. He takes both hands and puts them on John's shoulders, squeezes the heavy wool of the coat with his long fingers.

"John?"

John does not flinch from him. They stand like that for a moment and the detective holds his breath. Then, with a small sound, John Watson turns into Sherlock's embrace. The detective sighs with relief and pulls his love into his arms. He wishes that he was wearing the long coat so he could wrap them both up in it. He settles for wrapping his arms around John's small body and he pulls him as close to his own long body as he possibly can.

Sherlock bends his head and buries his nose in the silky hair. John must have just showered before the trip to the airport. His hair smells like shampoo and rain and the night air. John's hair smells like their bed, like home.

Sherlock turns his face into the silky hair and shuts his eyes.

The two men hold on to each other.

Sherlock whispers into the silken mass, "I'm sorry, John. I'm sorry."

John just shakes his head. He continues to cry softly. John makes no excuses, verbal, mental or otherwise. He doesn't excoriate himself; he doesn't tell himself he's a grown man and a soldier and soldiers don't cry. He knows better. He's seen hell and what it can do to a man and he knows better. He just stands there, his arms wrapped around the man he loves.

And he cries.

John wraps his arms around Sherlock's chest and holds on, his face turned against Sherlock's shirt. He can hear the detective's heartbeat; he can feel the steady rhythm under his cheek. He shuts his eyes. His tears soak the shirt beneath his face but neither man notices.

"He hurt you, John," the detective murmurs. "And he kept on hurting you and he wasn't going to stop until you were dead. I didn't know – I couldn't tell where the next attack was coming from. It couldn't go on. I couldn't let it go on, not for one moment longer. You have to see that. You have to see that, John."

John just shakes his head against the cool fabric of the detective's shirt. He doesn't trust himself to speak. He wants to tell Sherlock to hush, to shut up, to let it go. But he doesn't. He can't.

Sherlock lifts his head so that his chin rests on top of the dark blond head. He can feel the doctor's heartbeat through the palms of his hands as they hold onto the small frame, which continues to shake with John's quiet sobs.

" _He's so small, really. You don't notice that about John. Not right away. Sometimes, not ever. You see the soldier, the military stance. The way he holds himself and the determined way he walks. Like he's going to take on the whole world. He could, too. I could have lost him. We still don't know if he's going to come through this. Or what he'll be when he does. Fields says not to expect- He **has** to, though. He must. He's strong and constant and utterly brilliant; he's everything I'll ever want. But, sometimes, he's just so very small."_

Sherlock bends his head again and leans his cheek against the doctor's head.

"I'm not going to ask you to forgive me, John. I know you're angry because I went after him without you. And I don't blame you for that."

He lifts his head and now John Watson pulls his head back and looks into Sherlock's eyes. They glow strangely in the moonlight. He has to tilt his head back to see them clearly.

Sherlock looks down at John and can just make out his features in the moonlight. But his dark eyes remain in shadow.

"I'm not asking for your forgiveness, John, because I'd do it all over again. And I refuse to apologize for it."

The doctor's small body shudders at the words. But he doesn't speak.

Sherlock raises one pale hand and brushes the shaggy hair away from John's forehead so he can more easily see his eyes in the darkness. John's eyes gleam as they look up at him. The detective swallows and then drops his mouth toward the sweetly-lined forehead.

He brushes his lips against the doctor's hair that falls in a comma over his eyes, plants a kiss against the silken strands, then pulls back again and finds John's eyes once again in the dark. He swipes the doctor's wet cheek with one long thumb.

"I'd do it all over again and I'd do it exactly the same. That's not what I'm apologizing for. I'm apologizing – and I'm sorry - John, because I hurt you and lied to you and left without telling you where I was going. I should have handled it better. But something inside just – I couldn't risk - …John…Please …" he breaks off and stares down into John Watson's dark eyes.

And Sherlock thinks to himself, for the five hundredth time, how all his well-ordered mental processes break down when it comes to John Watson. And for the five hundredth time, he's mystified by it.

John tilts his head back and bites back a small gasp. Sherlock's head is neatly outlined by the nearly full moon, which acts as a backdrop to the tumbled curls, the dark curls which lift and move in the night breeze. His eyes look downward into John's. They glow strangely silver in the moonlight and John can see the shadows of the carved cheekbones, the planes of the pale face.

He can see the soft bow of Sherlock's lips.

In command of himself again, at least for the moment, John murmurs, "Shut up, Sherlock. Just – shut up."

John tilts his head back slightly and the detective shudders, then bends his head down to meet John's lips with his own.

_"God, he's just so beautiful. Beautiful and a little mad and completely maddening and everything I've ever wanted and, in the end, if I let him, he may break my heart. Later, when we're past this, I might just punch him. But not tonight."_

_"Not tonight,"_ John thinks as he rises into the kiss.

OooOooO

The two men come in the front entrance, John in the lead, Sherlock following right behind.

Agent Williams, who is on duty, comes into the front hallway, nods once at John, makes eye contact with Sherlock, nods, then goes outside to once again check the perimeter of the house, before coming back in to lock the front door for the evening. He then goes to the kitchen for a bite, during which he joins Agent Roaman to compare notes, both on the return of Sherlock and to discuss who is on outside duty and who is on inside. They end up flipping a coin.

There is no need for either of them to text Mycroft about Sherlock's return. Jake Lynn has already informed him – as well as texting all agents currently on duty in the manor. Jake also sends a text to all three doctors, who he assumes have turned in for the evening. No one texts Lori Hansen, but Williams later thinks of this and sends her one, as well.

OooOooO

In their room, John shuts and locks their door. He sheds his coat by the expedient manner of simply shrugging out of it and letting it fall to the carpet. He then goes into the frankly luxurious bathroom to brush his teeth and splash his eyes. While there, he regards himself in the mirror. Then he mentally shrugs and thinks about running a warm bath. For which of them, he's not quite certain, perhaps both. God knows, the sunken tub is large enough for both Sherlock and he to lay out fully in it, and even invite a third party, if so warranted. (It isn't.)

He stares at himself in the mirror – and wonders at the lost look in his eyes.

Sherlock sheds his leather jacket, then glances around their room. To tell the truth, he wasn't – entirely – certain that he would be back so soon, back with John, back in their room. Oh, he had no worries about the eventual success of his mission. He was just prepared for it to take longer than he had planned. The detective is nothing if not a realist where the best laid plans come into play.

He notes the notebook pc on the writing desk and frowns. That John has received two boxes – both of them from his brother or from Anthea – is obvious. He noted the watch on John's wrist at the airport. It had not occurred to him until that moment that the watch he had given John as a gift had been lost in the Wellington. He feels a momentary pang at this, as he knows how much John loved that watch.

He dismisses the laptop pc and the boxes from Mycroft. Right now, all he can think of is John and what is going on in the doctor's head.

Sherlock glances at the nearly closed door to the loo and sighs. He can hear the taps running and hopes that John is no longer as angry as he was a few moments ago. Still, even with John's whispered words out in the night, there was something – not quite _right_.

John's actions slightly mystify Sherlock, who still has not connected John's emotional state to his previous conversation with the on-board addiction psychiatrist, the psychological counselor – and his own family physician. He simply doesn't have a clue – yet. But to be honest, John's actions, as well as his mental processes and daily behavior, have always mystified the detective, just a little, and this makes John Watson the most enduring mystery of Sherlock's life. One he is determined to solve, sooner or later. If it takes the rest of his natural life, so be it.

Sherlock removes his suit jacket, then rummages in their cubby for his flannels and tee. Something nudges at him from his peripheral vision and he glances downward along his silk shirt.

A single crimson splash mars the white silk. He frowns, momentarily sickened.

He hastens to unbutton the shirt and pull it off his chest. He stands there, ruined shirt in hand when John comes out of the loo, unbuttoning his own shirt as he walks (he has eschewed the normal jumper, again, this evening for the trip to the airport), glances at Sherlock – and freezes.

Sherlock sees John's dark eyes stare, then widen. The doctor's entire demeanor changes in a second.

He looks at Sherlock's face, then glances downward at the white shirt in the detective's hands with its bright red stain, then back up to meet Sherlock's quiet grey-green gaze. He frowns.

"Did he touch you?" John demands.

Sherlock looks at John, puzzled, but has no chance to respond when John repeats his demand.

"Did. He. Touch. You?" John says again. He takes two steps toward Sherlock, who doesn't move.

"John?" Sherlock frowns at John, wondering what in the hell has him in a strop.

"Are you hurt?" John takes another few steps, which brings him more or less directly in front of the detective, who looks slightly down at his love, in puzzlement. His heart rate increases and he, frankly, doesn't know what the hell John is on about.

"I – No. John. No. Of course not." Sherlock swipes one white hand through his curls. He frowns at John.

"What are you –"

John gets up in Sherlock's face, heedless of their height difference.

"I should think the question is pretty clear, Sherlock Holmes."

Sherlock looks steadily into John's dark gaze. "No, John. I told you."

"Then what is this?" John reaches with one finger and flicks the silk shirt bunched up in Sherlock's hands.

"John – I –" Sherlock follows John's gaze down to his hands which hold the now ruined shirt. The shirt with its single crimson splash mars the front of the shirt. More or less directly under the slight wet spot caused by John's small crying jag.

John's eyes widen. "Oh, God!"

He looks at the blood, and his hands scrabble against the silk. He grabs it out of Sherlock's hands, then rips the silk with frantic tearing motions. His breath begins to come in small gasps.

Sherlock grabs John's hands by the wrist and holds the doctor slightly away from him.

"John! John … it's not my blood. I'm fine. It's –" his own eyes widen as he watches John react to this news.

"Let go of me, Sherlock!"

John wrenches his hands out of the detective's grasp, then stands there, his hands clenched at his side, his breath heaving. Without removing his gaze from John's, Sherlock holds the ruined shirt out to John Watson.

Impatient, John glances around their room, finds the small bin next to their bed and crosses the room to get it. He returns, grabs the torn scraps of Sherlock's shirt, throws them in the bin, then bends over and picks up the suit jacket and tosses that in too.

He walks all the way around the detective,  then makes him hold his hands up, palms turned upward. He inspects every inch of Sherlock's chest, arms and hands.

Finally, John unlocks and opens their door, sets the bin outside in the hallway, then shuts and locks their door again.

John turns to Sherlock, who looks at John as if he has lost his mind.

"Shower. Now."

John crosses to their bathroom, yanks the door open, then stands back, his arms crossed over his chest as the detective walks over to him. Sherlock looks into Johns' dark gaze, swallows, toes out of his shoes, then enters their bathroom in his stocking feet, unzipping his trousers as he walks.

John moves around him to start the shower, tests the water, then nods curtly at the detective, who continues to watch John Watson, all the while continuing to unbutton and unzip his trousers.

Without saying a word, John drops to his knees, Sherlock lifts one foot, then the other, as John yanks the socks off the long feet. Then he reaches up and pulls down on the designer trousers, then the dark silk pants. Both puddle on the floor at Sherlock's feet. The detective steps out of them and John hurls the offending garments into the outer bedroom.

John stands up and steps back to look at Sherlock, who stands there, stark naked, watching John's troubled gaze.

Then he just sighs and steps into the shower. If he expects his Army doctor to join him, he is disappointed. John just nods once, then leaves the room. The detective does not need to see it to know that John is undoubtedly also binning his suit trousers. He grimaces. This has been, so far, a rather expensive five and a half minutes.

Sherlock stands in the steam of the shower and frowns as the warm water cascades over his aching body. He reaches for a cloth, then washes quickly, finally just opts to stand there in the running water. He leans one long arm against the shower stall, then bends his head and lets the hot water pour over his hair. He shuts his eyes. It has been an incredibly long day and frankly, he begins to drift when the door opens again.

Sherlock startles as the door opens, and John Watson comes back into the room. John opens the shower door and Sherlock raises his head and opens his eyes to look into John's.

His Army doctor looks back at him, then steps, naked, into the shower. The damn thing is roomy enough for four or give grown men to stand, let alone just the two. John yanks the glass door closed behind them both, then moves to take the wash flannel out of Sherlock's hands – and drop it on the tiled floor. Then he puts his strong tanned hands around the his love’s waist. Slowly, he dips his head to the marble chest, finally encircles Sherlock's waist with his arms. He shuts his eyes, his cheek turned to hear the heartbeat he feared would stop before he ever got the chance to hear it again.

Sherlock dips his head toward John's, then turns his head to rest his cheek there, on top of the blond head. His eyes close. Warm water pours down over both of them. He wonders how long the hot water will hold out before they will have to turn the taps off and get out of the shower. He finds he doesn't really care.

John pulls back slightly and raises his head to look straight into the pale grey-green eyes slightly above his.

Sherlock looks down into John's dark blue gaze – and groans aloud. "John" he whispers.

"Sherlock," John murmurs back, his eyes eagerly seek out every line of the beloved face, lingers on Sherlock's dark eyelashes, the curve of his impossible cheekbones, the tiny dip above his perfect lips.

John feels his intense anger suddenly dissipating, literally evaporating, as if the water pulls it from the very pores of his body, washes it down the length of them, then rinses it away to pool around their feet in lazy swirls before it's gone.

His senses thrum.

He can feel Sherlock's body, tense with coiled energy, under his palms. He raises one hand, wonderfully steady, to rub a thumb over the chin, rough now with a day's stubble, then up to trace the full lips. Water pours down the planes of the beautiful face, then races over John's fingers.

John smiles. "I think – next time – I'll shave you," he murmurs, then tilts his head and Sherlock bends slightly to claim his love's mouth with a tiny gasp.

The men stand there, as the water cascades down over their bodies – and just taste, nip, nuzzle each other's mouths. John smiles against Sherlock's lips, then pulls back again to get lost in the grey-green universe of his lover's eyes. He could drown there – and count himself happy.

John does not release his love's gaze as he begins to rub the palms of his hands up and down the edges and planes of Sherlock's body. He regards the almond-shaped eyes, as he kneeds the muscles of his lover’s lower back, then brings his hands around to the side and moves them slowly down, down over the ribs. They dip in slightly around Sherlock's waist, then span out again over the lean hips.

His strong fingers, greedy now, reach back to clench in the tensely coiled muscles of his lover's arse. He yanks the slimly muscled body toward him with sudden desire and need, pulls Sherlock's body to him, so they stand there, in the pouring water, as little space between them as is possible. Sherlock's now fully erect cock presses against John's stomach and he smiles as his own erection responds to the glorious friction and silken pleasure of the hot water that pours down between their two bodies. His cock presses urgently against Sherlock's taut skin.

"John," Sherlock murmurs, his need burgeoning in his chest, flowering in the region of his heart, then spreading to light a fire behind his abdomen, finally racing through his system to pool in his groin.

"John." He pronounces his love's name with a released sigh, the one syllable embued with dark mystery. John's name pours from Sherlock's mouth as a litany, born in increasing desire and near impossible want.

John dips his head toward the beautiful chest, firmly defined by muscle, finds one perfect nipple, then teases it with little flicks of his tongue. Sherlock throws his head back and moans, as water pours down over his head, flattens the dark curls, then swirls around his closed eyes and down the edges of his nose and mouth. "God, John," he murmurs.

Sherlock's body turns vibrant, his very skin hums, and as he stands there under the cascading water, he feels desire race along his nerve endings, then spark his senses. His entire concentration narrows down to the few inches of flesh that John grips in his hands and gently nibbles with his lips. He whimpers.

"Shh, Easy," John whispers. His tongue coaxes. His tongue teases. His tongue flicks the one nipple until it stands erect, then he turns his attention to the other one. Under his fingers, Sherlock's skin quivers, the muscles tightening, then loosening, as if being massaged.

In turn, Sherlock grips John, his long fingers clenching, then releasing his Army doctor’s shoulders, then clenching again, his touch careful over the scar tissue on one shoulder.

He shuts his eyes, deliberately releases his more or less constant hold on his mind and mental processes - and lets his other senses take over as John makes love to him, under the steady stream of warm water.

John smiles against Sherlock's chest as he nibbles, then licks the buds, licking one while his calloused thumb encircles and rubs the other. Sherlock’s nipples are particularly sensitive and John knows this, has slowly and most thoroughly learned the ins and outs of his love's body as he knows the workings of his various guns. And he is even more attentative, takes much more slow, deliberate care with his lover's needs as he does with those various weaponry.

John reconnects with Sherlock's body through his fingertips, the palms of his hands, his lips, mouth and tongue. He shuts his eyes and slowly, lets his hands glide up and down Sherlock's body, down from the muscles in his arse, then back to the front, to grip Sherlock’s waist, his fingertips digging into the lean muscle.

He can feel the muscles of Sherlock's flat stomach tense, then contract with desire.

John feels his own pulse quicken and his heart rate soars, as Sherlock's cock wavers, then springs fully erect between their bodies. His own cock is tight, fully engorged now with desire and need. Time, he thinks, to take this out of the shower and into their bed. He murmurs as much to Sherlock, who, dizzy with lust, merely nods, then nudges the taps off with one shaking hand.

The two men step out of the shower and John envelopes Sherlock's long body in one long towel, warmed over the heater, an indulgence they do not have at Baker Street, but one he will insist they install at the first opportunity. John rubs his love's skin in up and down movements, then finally scrubs the dark curls as the detective bends his shaggy head toward him.

Sherlock laughs, takes the second towel and begins to dry John. He scrubs his Army doctor's skin until it's nearly pink, fascinated by the play of muscle under the skin of John's chest and upper arms. Finally, he kneels and runs the towel up and down John's legs, still defined by muscle, but slimmer than they were a few short weeks back.

He frowns at the new line of white and pink that outlines the scar on John's thigh -- the scar that will henceforth serve as a visual reminder of John's shooting and captivity, as if Sherlock would need such a reminder.

Sherlock rubs the towel along John's legs, then nudges the doctor to widen his stance so he can dry the inside curve of his thighs. His doctor obeys, moving his feet to give the detective access … to a lot of things.

John's erection bobs nearly upright, against the flat planes of his stomach, slightly shorter, but wider and thicker than Sherlock's cock. Sherlock leans over and lets his warm breathe huff out over the doctor's cock, then uses two sensitive fingertips to find and spread the drops he finds there around the glans.

John groans and his fingers tighten where they grip Sherlock's shoulders, as the detective kneels in front of him on the soft rug on the bathroom tiles.

"Bed, Sherlock," he groans aloud. His hands tighten, seemingly of their own accord, on the lean muscles, his fingers digging into the pale skin of Sherlock's neck and shoulders.

The detective just laughs. "Well, seeing as I'm down here, John," Sherlock murmurs.

He settles himself in front of John Watson, then wraps his long arms around the doctor's sturdy legs, and digs his fingertips into the muscles of John's arse. He bends his face toward his lover's groin and frankly nuzzles his Army doctor's erection, as a child nuzzles its mother's nipple, then takes a tentative lick across the head with a questing tongue.

"God, Sherlock!" John's entire frame shudders as his love begins to lick and stroke his cock in earnest, first dipping around and under the glans, then laving the entire length, finally encircling the silky head.

 _John tastes like sun and salt,_ Sherlock thinks, not certain why this should be so. He releases the doctor's arse and rubs his elegant hands up and down the outside of John's legs, feeling the soft hairs under the palm of his hand. He continues to pay attention to John's cock, nuzzling into the small crevices of his love's inner thigh with his nose and mouth, then pulling back with a sigh to plant small wet kisses along the entire straining length.

John's body quivers under his touch. The feel of Sherlock's lips on the most sensitive part of his anatomy, the slight rasp of his day-old stubble as he rubs his chin back and forth against John's erection, sends frissons of pleasure skittering along John's lower stomach and into his groin. It has been a while and he fears he won't be able to hold it together much longer. He shuts his eyes and groans with pleasure as Sherlock murmurs something to him, something he can't hear, and suddenly his love takes him in his mouth nearly to the hilt.

"Sherlock!" John shouts out his name, as his head snaps back and the tendons in his neck and shoulders tense with pleasure and need. Sherlock begins to suck in earnest, and as he tugs and pulls on John's cock, he hums, deep in his throat, an impossible sound of pleasure. Sherlock purrs like a cat, an impossibly large, lanky, utterly beautiful cat. He can feel John is on the edge and he hastens to pull as much of his love into his mouth as he can, to encircle John with his tongue and teeth and pull him into the hot wetness of his mouth.

John groans, a deep rumble of need, and suddenly comes in great spurts against the back of his lover's throat. Sherlock pulls and sucks and swallows. Finally, he leans gently back from John, then licks John's nearly spent cock with his tongue in a slow swirling motion. He laughs again as John groans his name, "Sherlock, Sherlock."

Sherlock plants a kiss against John's golden brown nest of pubic hair, then sits back on his heels and looks upward at John through his dark lashes.

John's head falls forward and his hands finally unclench where they've been gripping the bony shoulders with intensity. He opens his eyes to look at the marks his hands have made against Sherlock's pale skin, then move downward to his love's brilliant grey-green gaze.

"Nearly all green tonight," John thinks through his mental haze. "Rare."

He groans again in sheer pleasure and relief, then tugs with his hands until Sherlock rises to stand in front of him, his now urgent erection bobbing between them. John just laughs, then reaches down with one hand and encircles Sherlock's cock with his greedy palm. He tugs, ever so slightly and Sherlock squeezes his eyes shut. His breath comes in deep gasps. Then he reopens his grey-green eyes, pupils blown, to encounter into his Army doctor's dark blue gaze.

"Bed?" he murmurs, his long fingers digging into John's shoulders and upper arms. They squeeze, release, squeeze again.

"Bed," John agrees.

OooOooO

Two hours later, Sherlock awakens and opens his eyes in the dark of their bedroom. John's tawny head rests on his shoulder. The doctor's breathing is steady, slow.

Sherlock feels this is a good sign.

He stretches carefully, then relaxes back against the sheets, careful not to wake his sleeping love.

Sherlock feels weightless, almost as if he is floating. Earlier, John's clever hands found and loosened every knot, every kink in every nerve ending in his body. His muscles are languid; his skin like velvet stretched over his bones. He sighs and dips his head toward John's hair, nuzzles at a strand of the dark blonde silk.

He feels relaxed and most thoroughly and utterly shagged.

In a few minutes, Sherlock thinks, it might be time to wake up a certain Army doctor and remind him, all over again, that he is really, thoroughly angry with a certain consulting detective – and maybe they'll have another go.

In the meantime, Sherlock yawns, stares briefly at the night sky outside their window. He gently pulls John's body a little closer to his, encircles him with one protective arm – and goes back to sleep.

When the two men awaken together in the morning, John Watson is not – quite – himself.

And Sherlock begins the struggle of his life.

Three days later – they are all at War.

OooOooO

* THERE BUT FOR THE GRACE OF JOHN WATSON, CH. 22


	17. Chapter 17

**These lads, in their current incarnation, belong to the BBC and not to me and in their original incarnation to the estate of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle – Bless Him!**

**THE BOYS OF BAKER STREET**

**CH 17**

**NOTE: This ongoing work is a Trilogy.  This is Book Two.   This work occasionally references events that occurred in Book One:  THERE BUT FOR THE GRACE OF JOHN WATSON. If you have not read that work, you might not "get" some of the references in this story. You might want to stop right here and go read GRACE first, then come back to BOYS.  Otherwise, your reading experience will not have the intensity that I labored so hard to create for you.**

**This work is a trilogy. GRACE is Book One; BOYS is Book Two; and Book Three, Part One, follows immediately upon the heels of BOYS.**

**OooOooO**

**PROMISE: Last truly dark chapter, dear people. So sink into the angst now. Then … Gird Your Loins...**

OooOooO

**Excerpt of Transcript: Session # 5**

**Doctor John H. Watson, Patient.**

**Galen Dennison, Addiction Psychiatrist**

**# #**

**GD: John –if you don't want to talk about what's been happening to you-**

**JW: I know what's happening to me, Galen. I'm a medical doctor. My mind isn't total rubbish – not yet.**

**GD: John, I don't think—**

**JW: For Gods sakes, Galen, what do you think we're doing? Why do you think I'm sitting here, talking to you? I know you're recording these sessions. Sherlock** – **Sherlock won't talk to me about this. I guess he can't. But he can hear the recordings. He does listen to them, I know. I'm right, he listens to these?**

**GD: Yes, John. Every one. Yours and mine – and yours with Doctor Oakton.**

**JW: Then he can bloody well listen to this one. I know what he's going through. I know it's hell on earth. It is for me, as well. But he can't - Galen, he can't –**

**GD: John—**

**JW: Sorry. Give me a minute.**

**GD: Take all the time you need.**

**GD: John?**

**GD: John?**

**GD: Do you need to stop the session?**

**JW: No – just. Hang on.**

**GD: Take your time.**

**JW: Okay. Okay. I'm okay now. Galen, he can't do this. He can't – give me the care I'm going to need if this continues. He just can't. And ultimately – oh, shite…give me a few…**

**GD: John – we can stop right now.**

**JW: No. No. I need him to hear this.**

**GD: This is about you, John, not about Sherlock.**

**JW: It's about both of us, Galen. Always has been. Hang on.**

**GD: John – we should stop for now.**

**JW: Damn it. Just – sod this.**

**GD: Whenever you're ready-**

**JW: I'm ready.**

**GD: All right.**

**JW: Ultimately, he has to make the decision. I won't be able to do it for myself. We both know that – you and I both know this - and Maggie, as well.**

**GD: Know what, John?**

**JW: Know that - Sherlock has to make the final decision. He holds my Power of Attorney. God knows, I bloody well don't want Harry involved.**

**GD: Harry –**

**JW: My sister, Harry. Harriet Watson. I don't want her involved with this. But she'll try – she'll try to –**

**GD: John –**

**JW: Shite.**

**GD: I think we should stop this session, John, let you get your thoughts together -**

**JW: They're as "together" as they're going to get, Galen. Let's go on.**

**GD: All right. You were saying, regarding a decision that your partner will have to make.**

**JW: I want and need Sherlock to have the final say, with your and Maggie's input.**

**GD: The 'final say' ?**

**JW: Knowing that – Knowing he'll be the one who has to decide, this is why he won't – why he can't talk to me about this.**

**GD: John, please. I'm stopping this session right now.**

**JW: No. NO. He has to do this and that - that is what's killing him. I'm the one killing Sherlock. Me.**

**GD: How do you mean? What decision does Sherlock have to make, John?**

**JW: The decision to send me away.**

**OooOooO**

**18 Hours after Lucerne**

Sherlock wakes with a start, thinking someone has called his name. He reaches out automatically for John. The doctor lies on his side, curled away from him. Sherlock lets him sleep. He lies there for a minute and listens to the sound of the morning thunderstorm outside their window. Finally, he sighs, and swings his long legs over the side of the bed, then just sits there, his hands clasped in front of him and stares at the carpet.

And tries to shake off the dream.

He shakes his head and runs one hand through his tangled curls, as if he can still feel the cold mist in his hair. The icy spray was freezing, there at the top of the Alpine waterfall.

He stands and pads naked across the floor to grab the first shower. Behind him, John Watson stirs, and then opens his eyes. The doctor sits up slowly, disentangling himself from the sheets and blankets. He hears the loo door close but does not look toward it. Instead, he bends over, automatically reaches for his boxer shorts to pull them on. Then he sits on the edge of the bed, and looks around at the bedside table, the lamp, the green silk walls, their closed door, his clasped hands, his bare feet.

Faint tremors shake his form.

When Sherlock comes out of the shower, for once eschewing his more formal wear and dressed in dark jeans and a long-sleeved buttoned shirt, he glances over at John – and freezes. John sits there, both hands dug into the edge of the bed, and shakes so violently that it is a wonder he remains upright.

"John!" Sherlock grabs his mobile, dials Dennison directly. "Get up here now and bring a hypo!"

He rushes over to the doctor and holds onto John's bare shoulders, as he expects the doctor to try to escape their room at any moment.

Instead, John Watson raises his trembling head to look into Sherlock's grey eyes.

"I'm burning alive, Sherlock. Why don't you help me? I know you can."

The doctor's voice is rasping, raw. He continues to shake, as the tremors race through his body. His fingertips twist in the bed sheets. He does not curse the detective, nor does he attempt to escape his grasp.

Sherlock stares at John. And all his mental alarm bells ring.

He keeps one hand on John's good shoulder, uses the other to thumb a number on his mobile to call Doctor Fields. He requests that he come to their room and bring Nurse Hansen.

Sherlock gently pushes down on the doctor's shaking form. Obediently, John lies down – and begins to shake in earnest. He groans slightly, wraps one arm around his midsection, and gasps.

"Sherlock, please," the doctor's voice pleads, but his voice is quiet, almost – calm. Sherlock bends over the doctor's body and holds onto his shoulders gently, holding him firmly down, despite the fact that John has not attempted to get up or move away from him.

The doctor simply looks upward into Sherlock's concerned gaze. His breath comes in short gasps and he shuts his eyes momentarily as the shaking becomes so strong that Sherlock can feel the tremors race under John's skin.

John re-opens his eyes to look at Sherlock, his wounded gaze heartbreaking to the detective.

"John," Sherlock says urgently. "Just – hold on. Deep breathes, okay?"

John just looks at him. "Why, Sherlock, why don't you help me?" he asks again.

He could be asking the detective to please pass the salt.

Sherlock frowns. "You know I can't do that, John. Please don't ask me."

John does not answer. He just looks puzzled. "But why?" he asks again.

Their door opens and Galen Dennison comes in, followed closely by Thomas Fields and then Lori Hansen.

Galen hurries to John's side, as Sherlock steps aside to allow him access. John follows Sherlock with his dark eyes. At the sound of thunder, John's eyes stray momentarily to their window. He looks at the rain, then back at Sherlock. Then he just looks away.

"John!" Galen glances across John's shaking body at Sherlock, who continues to frown at his Army doctor.

Galen, who expects to have to hold John down, seems momentarily at a loss at John's placid demeanor, despite the frantic shaking. Galen opens the small case, lays it on the bedside table, then reaches for an alcohol swab. Lori Hansen is there ahead of him.

"Here, Dr. Dennison," Lori says. She takes the small packet from Galen's case, rips it open, then hands the tiny square of alcohol-soaked cotton to the psychiatrist. Galen nods his thanks, swipes John's arm, then administers the hypodermic. All the time, John patently ignores both doctors and Hansen, and keeps his gaze fixed on the window where rain slashes downward in gray sheets.

Sherlock stands to the side and watches this, one eyebrow raised.

Finished, Galen hands the now empty hypo to Lori, who takes it from him, then hands him a piece of cotton to hold over the injection site and a bandage.

John shuts his eyes and groans as the tremors momentarily increase. Suddenly, his head snaps back into the mattress and his hands scrabble and twist the sheets by his side.

"Easy, John." Galen just holds onto his shoulders as the attack continues. John's spine arches upward and the doctor groans, then opens his bruised eyes. He makes no attempt to move, to get out of the bed, to struggle with Galen. He does not curse or beg or plead with either of the three who stand there.

He simply stares upward, as sweat pours down his face, and soaks into his hairline. Finally, his muscles relax, and he unclenches his fists from the bed sheets.

After a moment, John's eyes close and he slumps into the bed. Galen lets go of his shoulders and reaches for his stethoscope. He listens to John's heart, then nods once and gathers up his supplies. He looks around at Thomas Fields, then moves aside.

"Do you want to –" Galen begins.

Fields just shakes his head. "No. Let the man sleep."

As Galen gathers up the small black case that holds the one remaining original hypo, Doctor Fields looks at Sherlock, who stands there and continues to frown at John.

"All right, my boy. Care to tell me what's changed about this attack? It's obvious something has."

Sherlock startles slightly, then looks into Fields' sympathetic brown gaze.

"I think we all need to have a talk," the detective says determinedly.

Both doctors look at each other, then at Sherlock, and nod over John Watson's now quiet form. Lori gently covers John's body with the sheets and duvet, then moves to wipe his brow and face with a damp cloth. She smoothes the shaggy hair away from the doctor's closed eyes. Sherlock watches her quiet movements, then turns his gaze upon his partner's sleeping face.

And his frown deepens.

Behind them, the storm intensifies and the sound of thunder reverberates across the rolling lawns. Rain begins to pour down in sheets.

Lori moves to close the window.

OooOooO

In the end, it was easy for Michael Billings to discover that John Watson was not, in fact, deceased. He simply returned to his hotel room, and called the memorial hall he had just left, inquiring as to the burial site of one Doctor John Watson, as he wished to pay his respects.

The woman on the other end of the phone answered in the negative that she had no information on that at all, and sounded confused when she realized this fact.

Billings thanked her. Then proceeded to call the two crematoriums and every cemetery within a hundred miles radius. No joy at any of them.

He smiled grimly and relayed this information to James Moriarty's secretary. Then he went out for dinner and a beer.

That was over 24 hours ago. Now Mick Billings sits at the small desk in his hotel room, drums his fingertips on the desktop, and tries for the fifth time to get Jim to answer his mobile. He has left several messages, but still has not heard back.

Billings frowns at the continuing rings, then makes a decision. He hangs up. And immediately calls back to the main switchboard number. She answers on the second ring.

Five minutes later, Mick Billings, incredulous, drops his phone on the bed, then just stands there and listens to the sounds of the thunder and the rain as it hits the window.

 _Not possible. Not fucking possible._ He feels slightly dazed, disoriented.

After a few minutes of this, he turns back into the room. He packs his things quickly, and leaves his case and carry-on on the bed. Despite the fact his door is locked, Mick takes his two weapons into the loo with him. He showers, changes, and then sits back down in the chair – and checks his bank account via his mobile phone.

At the rather healthy balance, he frowns again. Obviously, not only his agreed-to salary but a rather large bonus has been deposited to his account and that within the last few hours.

He considers this fact for a moment. If this is a banking error, he can't afford for it to be rectified as he has no other source of income lined up.

He hurriedly transfers the bulk of the cash into a secondary account, then turns off his mobile and sits there in his hotel room, his thoughts momentarily in chaos.

He waits, expecting at any moment to receive a phone call to tell him the whole thing has been a mistake, some weird joke or game on Jim's part.

He waits in vain.

OooOooO

Lori Hansen sits in the chair by the bed and watches over John Watson as he sleeps off the attack and Dennison's injection. Immediately after the doctors and Sherlock leave the room, she realises the doctor is shaking, perhaps from cold? She finds a clean tee shirt in their cubby and pulls it over the doctor's head and arms, then smoothes the cotton shirt over his chest and stomach.

She notes the tapes around his ribs are absent and wonders if she should replace those? She makes the decision to consult Doctor Fields about that as soon as their meeting is over. Finally, she covers John in the blankets again, tucks them carefully around the doctor's unconscious form to hold in his body heat.

From time to time, Lori rinses a cloth out under running cold water, and bathes his face with it. She checks his pulse, time and again, then makes careful notes on the pad she has brought with her. When she's done, she drops the pad and pen on the bedside table and alternates between watching John and the rain outside the window. She watches the doctor as he sleeps – and remembers his actions in the lower levels of the Wellington, when he saved all their lives.

 _It's not fair,_ Lori thinks. It's not fair that her Dad went off to war and never came back – and his body was never recovered. It's not fair that her cousin, an American Marine, is in Afghanistan even now, fighting. And it's not fair that this good man, this doctor and soldier who sleeps in front of her, has been put through hell both abroad and now here at home - and has had virtually everything taken from him.

 _None of it is fair,_ Lori decides, as she thinks about Sally Donovan. Lori is not used to inhabiting the world these men live in. Nor is she of the mindset that sees conspiracies in every shadow. But neither is she unintelligent. It didn't take her long to figure out that the bomb that was planted in her VW bug was meant for her – and certainly not for Sally Donovan. No one could have known the Sergeant would travel with her that night.

Joe tells her that the person responsible for targeting her car – and consequently herself – is now in custody and being questioned. But he has not told her who it is. Each time she asks, Joe changes the subject. Lori frowns as she thinks about this.

James Moriarty has left the country, she was assured. Then how or why would he or anyone of his organization attempt to kill her? She has done nothing. Nothing at all that would warrant the attack on her. Consequently, she makes the connection that the attack on her has something to do with the attacks on Doctor Watson and Sherlock Holmes.

 _That all occurred just a few nights ago_ , she thinks, startled _. Just last week, in fact_. Lori studies John Watson's sleeping face and wonders at the fact that she feels weeks have gone by since that night when Sally Donovan died, when in reality it has only been a number of days.

John Watson barely moves in his sleep. But she can see the rapid eye movements and knows the doctor dreams. She hopes Mr. Holmes gets back soon from his meeting with Doctors Oakton, Dennison and Fields.

Outside the window, the rain continues to pour down.

OooOooO

Mick Billings has just decided to go for breakfast before he makes any firm plans, when his phone rings, and startles him out of his reverie.

"Mr. Billings?"

"Yes. Who's this?" He does not recognize the voice and has to admit to himself that just for a moment, he expects Jim's weird singsong inflections.

The voice on the other end of the phone sounds nothing like James Moriarty at all. But it's obvious from the phone number that he is calling from the same country code – Switzerland.

"This is the new Director of the Board. Please just listen. I have some information for you. Afterward, you have a decision to make. I hope it's one in your favor, Mr. Billings."

Billings raises one eyebrow – but he sits and listens without interrupting.

As the man speaks, Billings begins to smile. It is not a very nice smile.

Once the conversation is over, he appears positively gleeful.

 _Well, all right then. This is more bloody like it_.

And at last, he'll be out of his sodding predecessor's shadow.

He glances at his watch. His new – _boss_ for want of a better word – has requested ("requested" - that's a welcome change from Jim's demands) that he call him back in three hours. He nods to himself. Time to make some phone calls. He's going to need the help – and supplies.

As he leaves his room to go in search of a decent breakfast and some much-needed backup, he easily dismisses James Moriarty from his mind.

And decides that he and this Ronald Adair person just might get along swimmingly.

OooOooO

Thomas Fields, Maggie Oakton and Galen Dennison all sit in the soft leather armchairs in silence – and watch while Sherlock Holmes paces up and down the oriental carpet in the massive library. His fingers are steepled under his chin as he walks back and forth.

Finally, he pauses and addresses Maggie and Galen.

"What is your professional opinion as to what would occur if I were to take John away from here and submit him for regular outpatient psychiatric care at any of the facilities the two of you previously recommended?"

Dead silence.

Maggie looks across at Galen, who sits there and frowns as he considers the question.

Thomas Fields removes his glasses, rubs his eyes and sighs. He replaces his glasses, then looks over at Maggie.

"Doctor Oakton?"

She looks up at Sherlock. "If you – inform – them of John's actions in the last few weeks, of the events that have occurred since his shooting, of his attempted suicide in St. Anne's, of his medical license being revoked, of our sessions, which we have on tape (and we might have to submit those, not sure of that) and of his exact words to you here in this library a few evenings ago, as well as of his kidnapping, maltreatment and subsequent addiction, to say nothing of his current mental and emotional state, well –"

She glances at the two men again as if seeking approval of what she is about to say. Galen just nods at her. Thomas Fields just shakes his head. He folds his hands and looks at her, then at Sherlock.

She says grimly, "Sherlock, they'd section the man so damn fast, your head would spin."

Sherlock nods, unsurprised. "Yes. That is my assessment as well. And 'they' would then wish to take John away from me. To care for him until –"

"Exactly," Galen says quietly.

"That outcome is totally unacceptable," Sherlock murmurs, more to himself than to anyone. Sherlock continues to stand in front of the three medical professionals and taps his lower lip with one elegant finger.

"My boy, what are you thinking?" Fields asks quietly.

Sherlock looks at his family physician and then shakes his head.

"Thomas, I can't tell you what course of action I intend to take. I don't have one – yet."

Sherlock runs a hand through his hair, then glances at the rain outside the tall library windows. "I – need more time," he says.

He looks at Fields, then Oakton and Dennison. "I am asking the three of you to watch John for a day or two. Let's see if this is a temporary condition."

Maggie frowns and Dennison glances at her, then back at Sherlock. Fields just sighs and shakes his head. "Sherlock, lad - "

"Thomas, I know what you would say but I have to give John some time here. I can't make a decision – any decision – until he's been under observation for at least that long. Bloody hell!" His outburst startles all three doctors.

"Bloody hell – this is a man's life we're talking about here and although I respect each and every one of your opinions, I refuse to consider the subject until at least a few more days have passed. Let's give John time to adjust to regularly scheduled injections of the new medication." Here he addresses his comments to Dennison. "Give his system a chance to adjust to those. He's only had three now, the third being this morning. I'm right on that count, Galen, correct?"

Galen Dennison nods. "You are correct. We have to assume that all of the others were tainted by the hypodermics. The only ones free of that – crap – were the ones I originally gave John, plus the one this morning."

Sherlock looks at the rain for a minute, then back at the three sets of eyes who gaze at him.

"John seemed to react well to the first two you gave him, before the bad lot of hypos. Let's just give him a little time, all right?"

What he doesn't say is, "And let's give me time to consider what I am going to do about this nightmare."

They all nod at him, sympathetically. Sherlock leaves the library hurriedly. He doesn't look back.

Thomas Fields glances at Maggie Oakton and Galen Dennison – and shakes his gray head.

"Plain as a pike staff, it is. But there's no talking to the lad." He folds his glasses and puts them in his shirt pocket. "Never was."

OooOooO

Sherlock goes to their room to check on John. Outside the closed door, he stands and looks at the wood grain of the door, clearly visible through the French white paint.

Slowly, he reaches out one shaking hand and places his palm against the cool wood. He bends his forehead toward the door – and momentarily shuts his eyes.

Finally, he reaches for the brass knob, so cold in his hand, turns it slowly, carefully, in order to make the least amount of noise possible.

He walks into the darkened room and gently closes the door behind him.

Lori looks up from where she sits next to their bed, studying her notes. She holds a finger to her lips, then stands and gathers up her notepad and pen.

Sherlock glances at her, then walks across the deep pile of the carpet and comes to stand next to their bed. He looks down at John.

She speaks quietly over the doctor's unconscious body.

"He's still sleeping, Mr. Holmes. His vitals appear stable. I've kept him warmly covered."

Sherlock nods at this news, but he seems distracted. He glances at the tiny nurse.

"Thank you for watching him while –"

"Mr. Holmes, that is why I'm here, to act as Doctor Watson's nurse." She turns to gather up her few things then stops at the door.

"He needs to eat. Do you want me to wait and see if he'll go down with me?"

The detective just shakes his head. "No. That won't be necessary. I'll see that he gets to the kitchen as soon as he awakens."

He looks at John's sleeping form and his gaze softens. "I have something I must do in the lab this morning."

He looks back into the sympathetic gaze of the little nurse. "If you can watch him later – make sure that one of the men goes with him if he decides to walk, once this rain —"

She smiles, but it's a sad smile. "Of course, no one will let him wander around alone."

Sherlock flinches slightly at the word "wander" then just runs a hand through his hair.

She glances at the doctor, then back up to meet Sherlock's gaze.

"Mr. Holmes – I'm so sorry. Truly sorry for what Doctor Watson – and you – are going through. I wish there were more I could do."

She opens the door to leave, then turns back. "I'll see him shortly. He does need to eat."

Sherlock looks at the closed door after she leaves and frowns. He turns back to his partner.

John sleeps fitfully. His hands shake slightly. In his restless sleep, John turns his head slightly, toward Sherlock.

Sherlock stands there in the muted light that comes from their window. He looks at the familiar face, the gray-blonde silky spikes that lay against the pale skin. He counts the lines that were not there a few weeks ago.

He watches John's eyelids move. The doctor dreams. He wonders what about.

Sherlock sinks slowly to his knees, as if in prayer. He crosses his arms and lays his head on them, next to John's hand.

He wishes John would wake up, wishes he would sense he is kneeling next to him and just put his hand on Sherlock's head and run his fingers through the curls, like he always does. Everything would be all right; everything would be just fine, if John would wake up and put his hands on Sherlock's head.

John sleeps on. His hand shakes slightly. Sherlock shuts his eyes.

God, he is just so bloody tired. They both are. Totally exhausted and he wonders how the doctor goes on, when he himself is so near the end of his rope.

Without warning, his chest hitches but he bites back the sound, swallows it whole, so as not to disturb the sleeping doctor. He wonders if this is how people cry. Is he doing it properly?

He has, after all, not had much practice. Once, back there in the hospital room. But that was just for a second or two and those were tears of anger, of frustration.

All alone in the darkened room, while rain pours against their window, Sherlock lays his head on the bed next to John's faithful hand – and tries to cry.

One hour later, when the good doctor tiredly awakes, his hand automatically rises to stroke the detective's wild hair, to tangle in the riotous curls.

Sherlock kneels next to John, unmoving, and his dry eyes stare into the darkness.

OooOooO

Mycroft looks up as Anthea comes in the door. She carries a cup of coffee, a few sheets of printout – and a small box.

She places the small dark blue box in front of him, then sits across from him and sips at her morning coffee. He lifts the catch, hesitates, then reaches in to grasp and hold up John Watson's Victoria Cross - intact. He smiles across at her.

"You've done excellently, my dear, as usual. May I ask?"

"Lord Crandall's home. The agents who went through his house found it in a drawer in his personal bedroom."

Mycroft nods. He carefully places the medal back into its box and hands it back to her.

"Excellent." He takes up his cup of tea and glances across the desk at her.

"And what about the furnishings for the flat?"

She smiles. For once, she can discuss something ordinary, mundane. She finds it refreshing, fun even. Up to a point.

"Well, my assistant was successful in finding that wallpaper. Although I had my doubts."

He raises one eyebrow. "You cannot convince me that anyone on the planet had more of that hideous pattern."

He picks up his tea and sits back. For once, they can take a few minutes to discuss something other than politics, war and rumors of war. He finds it rather endearing to discuss wallpaper and paint. Relaxing even.

She nods and grins. "I know. I thought the same thing. She discovered a dealer in Florida, in the States, who had several rolls of it. The pattern matches perfectly."

Mycroft sips at his tea, considers for a moment. "How in heaven's name were you able to –"

"EBay."

He smiles at her. "Ah yes, I believe these online purchasing sights can be – helpful – at times."

Anthea smiles and sets her coffee cup down on the edge of his desk. "She promised free shipping if we took her entire stock."

Mycroft looks at her. "Dare I ask?"

"Thirty-two rolls."

He nearly spits out his tea. "Thirty-two rolls of that horrid –"

Anthea nods sympathetically.

"I know. I thought the same thing. Frankly I think she's so glad to be rid of it, she'd personally accompany it over here, if need be."

Anthea sips at her coffee, consults her Blackberry.

"And the same decorator was able to give us a lead that proved helpful in finding the matching wallpaper for Mrs. Hudson's flat." She looks up at his bemused expression. "That was easier. It wasn't quite – so –"

"Right." He nods.

"Well, presumably, the extra rolls can be kept in storage for when my brother decides to shoot up the walls again. Hopefully, there won't be any more instances of directed violence against his flat."

Anthea agrees. She glances back at him. "The painting and repairs are done. We have only to wait for the wallpaper. As for the furnishings you asked me to replace – "

She sets down her Blackberry and consults two printed sheets in her hand.

"Your brother's bedroom is not large enough to accommodate a king or queen bed, as you asked, so we went with a double. The sofa was easily replaced, as was his chair."

She looks over at him as he watches her, with a bemused expression on his face. Frankly, she's having a wonderful time with this domestic business – again, up to a point.

"Doctor Watson's chair wasn't that damaged. We decided on reupholstering it. And there were a few items that weren't even touched. Mrs. Hudson's flat was, by far, the easiest to repair. And her personal items were hardly touched at all, surprisingly."

He raises one eyebrow. "I didn't think anything had survived the onslaught."

She nods and consults her list. "Most of the books in 221B were left untouched, surprisingly, although a few of the more – esoteric – volumes on chemistry were ruined but we were able to locate and replace most of those. Not all, unfortunately. Your brother's collection was rather extensive."

She consults her sheet again.

"The glazed mirror was left alone, surprisingly, and a few of the paintings were undamaged and most of the kitchen ware was in the cabinets at the time and seems to have escaped the carnage."

She looks at her list, then grins and looks up at Mycroft. "And one human skull – totally intact and paint-free."

He sighs and finishes his tea. "And the other item I asked you to track down?"

She flips to the second sheet in her hand, then leans to hand it across to him.

"South American buyer. Collector, actually, as I doubt he even knows how to play the violin. But he currently has two Stradivari, and one Guarneri. All three come up for auction in the next two weeks."

Mycroft consults the sheet, one eyebrow raised.

"A Guarneri?"

Mycroft picks up the readout, glances at it, then places it back on the desk pad in front of him.

"The Sunset Rose. Hmmm. Never thought anyone would even consider parting with that particular instrument."

She waits. He sighs. "Try for either of them."

She nods, "Limit?"

"Well, let's not break the bank, shall we? The family has already taken a rather exorbitant hit with our recent contributions to St. Anne's hospital. "

He jots a high and low figure down on the printout, then hands it back to her.

"My dear, make subtle inquiries to see if this – collector – is at all interested in a private sale. I do so detest auctions."

She nods her dark head. She's already planned on that at any rate.

"And if we are successful in acquiring one of them?"

Mycroft sighs and sits back. "I've already arranged for Mummy's and my wedding gift to John. It is actually being delivered to the mansion this week for safekeeping. This will be our gift to Sherlock – provided my brother behaves himself between now and that happy occasion."

Anthea nods and smiles. She takes the printout with her as she leaves.

Mycroft rubs his eyes. He sighs. Well, the rather domestic interlude was nice while it lasted.

He picks up and glances at a report she has left him regarding the results of the facial recognition software employed during John Watson's memorial service. He reads, then frowns.

Mycroft reaches for his Blackberry and dials a number he now knows by heart.

"Detective Inspector Lestrade? Mycroft Holmes. Fine, thank you. Tell me Detective Inspector, what do you know about an ex-soldier, an Army Lieutenant, by the name of Michael Billings?"

OooOooO

Sherlock is in his lab. He holds up a rather ordinary envelope, currently encased in a plastic zip bag and stares at it. He turns it over in his hands, studies it, then reaches for his mobile.

A few minutes later, Agent Roaman meets him at the lab door.

"Agent Roaman, as I understand it, either you or Agent Williams are the ones who normally collect and deliver the post here?

Roaman nods, glances around the laboratory. He has not seen it complete, only in stages as they delivered boxes to the younger Holmes the previous week. Amazing. He places his attention back on Sherlock.

"Yes sir." He takes the bag from Sherlock, turns it over in his hands, then hands it back to the detective. "I don't remember seeing that envelope, sir. But then, I wouldn't would I?"

Sherlock looks at him.

Roaman sighs. "Your brother had the post stopped at Baker Street. We've been collecting it from the post office direct. It's bundled and either Williams or I just bring it back, and place it on the entryway table. Neither one of us actually goes through it to sort it out."

Sherlock sighs and nods. Exactly as he suspected. That leaves three possibilities. One he discounts immediately as he has no doubts at all, now, about Mycroft's men. That leaves two very distinct possibilities. He frowns at both of them.

Roaman hands the bag back to Sherlock, who nods distractedly. He seems lost in thought.

"Is there anything else, sir?"

Sherlock shakes his head, then glances up. "The crew who comes to clean the mansion, they've all been vetted, I suppose?

Roaman nods. "Yes sir. Thoroughly. We have digital photos of them, as well as of the food service people. We check each of them against the photos at the back door."

He glances again at the envelope in Sherlock's hand. "Is it important, sir?"

Sherlock just shakes his head. "Yes, but I can't see –" his voice trails off and he stares ahead of him.

"If there's nothing else, Mr. Holmes?"

Sherlock shakes himself. "No. That's fine. Thank you."

Roaman nods and leaves. His shift is over and he hopes to catch some much-needed hours of sleep before the next crisis. That there will be another crisis, he has no doubt. Trouble seems to follow the younger Holmes wherever he goes.

Sherlock stands in his lab and holds the envelope in his hand, his mind grappling.

OooOooO

**Twenty-four Hours after Lucerne.**

John cuts through the kitchen, followed by Jake Lynn, on his way for his afternoon walk. The rain has stopped, at least for the moment and the world seems bright, fresh and new outside the window.

As he walks by the two women, he nods at Lori and Maggie. Jake Lynn grins at both of them, then follows John dutifully.

"Interesting," thinks Lori, as she sets out drinks and plates of food in the kitchen.

Mycroft told Maggie that a cook will be on staff shortly and she thinks that will be just fine. In the meantime, the refrigerator, freezer, cabinets, everything is well stocked with both fresh and frozen foods. The residents have no trouble putting together meals for themselves. Everyone more or less takes turns preparing meals.

Lori loves to cook and has not had that much of an opportunity, as of yet, with Joe. His hours are so erratic, they very seldom have regularly scheduled meals together. As the new kid on the block, Lori takes it on herself to prepare the noon meal, first asking Maggie how many she can expect.

Maggie looks up from her case notes, then smiles. "The men wander in when they have a free moment. Frankly, I've only seen Sherlock – Mr. Holmes - eat a few meals since we've been here. And John, of course – well, it's been a struggle to get food down him. But he does try. And he's getting better. We always include him in the count."

Lori nods as she sets out luncheon items. "Watson's Warriors," she murmurs out loud.

Maggie puts her notes in her brief case, then moves to pull glasses from the cabinets. She looks at Lori with interest and not a little amusement.

"What?"

Lori looks up at her and grins. Maggie grins back. There is something so personable about the diminutive nurse.

"It's silly, really. And I've only been here two days, not even that. But, well," she considers the knife she is using to slice vegetables and regards the American psychologist.

"Well, don't you notice how all the men, Mr. Holmes' men, everyone, really, follow Doctor Watson around with their eyes or take turns escorting him back and forth whenever he —"

Lori breaks off as she notes Maggie's quiet demeanor. Her eyes widen.

"Oh."

She bends her head to regard the knife in her hands, then places it carefully on the plate in front of her. She flashes back to the morning at St. Anne's, the morning she followed Sherlock Holmes to John Watson's hospital room. The morning Sherlock intimated that Doctor Watson had attempted suicide the day before. Suicide watch. Doctor Watson must _still_ be on suicide watch. Or at the very least, being constantly watched.

Lori winces and her eyes briefly close. She opens them to find Maggie Oakton looking at her sympathetically. "Oh," she repeats sadly.

Maggie just nods. "Yes. John – Doctor Watson had an _incident_ in St. Anne's. Sherlock had him put on suicide watch."

She notes she has no trouble referring to him as Sherlock when he is not around – or holding a gun to her head. She shakes her head at the still terrifying memory.

Maggie finishes setting out glasses on the countertop, does a mental count to make certain she has included everyone. At the last moment, she decides to include Sherlock as well. You never know.

She glances back up Lori Hansen, who just waits expectantly.

"There's more," Lori prompts her. "Did he—"

Maggie sighs. "Sherlock never said directly. But we all felt – well – I believe he continues to expect John to be – escorted – for want of a better word, until he feels that –"

She breaks off and studies the small nurse. Then takes a deep breath.

"Lori, John's medical license was revoked due to the records of his addiction and subsequent treatment being entered into the national database. He received the letter just a few days ago."

Lori's eyes widen and suddenly fill. She ducks her head and busies herself with slicing vegetables.

"I didn't know," she said quietly. She chops busily, then considers. "I would think that Sherlock's brother could do something about that."

She's not exactly certain of what power Mycroft Holmes wields, but she's willing to bet it's far-reaching.

Maggie sits down on a stool and idly picks up a cube of cheese to nibble on.

"I'm afraid it's not that simple. John – Doctor Watson will have to revalidate. And until that happens, well, so much has happened, that Mycroft's men just keep an eye on him. One of them more or less walks with him everywhere."

She glances at Lori Hansen again. "And to tell you the truth, we all feel that it's a good thing, for more reasons than just the one. John has not responded, yet, to the injections Galen gives him. He really shouldn't be left alone that long. Not until we feel he is better. And I don't think he minds all that much. He seems to enjoy the company. Especially Agent Lynn's."

Lori's eyes widen again. This is the first time the actual word "agent" has been used around her. But it fits. It all fits now. The last piece of the puzzle slides into place. She nods and picks up the knife again.

"So," she says carefully. "Watson's Warriors."

Maggie looks at her, then glances out the back door where the two men have just left on their walk. She grins.

The two women finish preparing the noon meal in companionable silence. In a few minutes, Galen Dennison wanders in and volunteers to toss the salad, his only cooking skill. Lori just smiles.

OooOooO

When John and Agent Lynn return from their walk, they both come in the kitchen door. John washes his hands at the sink, then sits down with the others and fidgets with the utensils.

He pointedly does not ask where Sherlock is.

When Galen Dennison notes that John does not eat much, he glances at Maggie. She rises quietly, goes to the fridge and gets a small can of a protein drink she has stockpiled there. She pours it in a glass, then sets it unobtrusively in front of John. And goes back to eating her lunch.

John puts down his fork and spoon, then takes up the glass and drains it, more to make Maggie happy than anything else. She nods at him. He goes back to fidgeting with his fork.

Mycroft's agents wander in, one at a time, and eat with them there at the kitchen counter. No one uses the huge dining room and its massive dining table, more suited to formal meals of state than to their circumstances.

When the noon meal is done, John insists on helping stack dishes in the washer. Then he and Jake Lynn leave the kitchen together. Thomas Fields excuses himself and leave to make phone calls to his office.

Lori finishes setting the kitchen to rights, then glances at Maggie and Galen, before she walks outside for some fresh air.

Maggie and Galen look at their watches and Galen shakes his head. No injection yet. Maggie sighs and retrieves her notes from her purse. She taps her pen on her mobile and looks back at Galen.

"The new batch – you'll use that next?" she asks.

Galen nods. "Yes. It's been vetted by both Mr. Holmes and the lab that Mycroft uses. It was just the hypos that—"

Maggie nods. The less said about those hypodermics, the better. The two of them sit and plan their next sessions with John. Galen hands Maggie a memory stick which contains the latest session with John. His hands brush up against hers as she takes the stick from him. He swallows and his eyes widen.

Unaware of his reaction, Maggie takes the memory stick and raises an eyebrow. He nods at her.

"Listen or not, but I think you should hear that one, before I give it to Sherlock."

She sighs and takes it with her to her room as she leaves. As Lori comes in, she glances at Galen Dennison – and notes the look of longing that Doctor Dennison directs toward Maggie Oakton as she leaves the kitchen.

Lori's eyes widen. She looks at the door that Doctor Oakton has just walked through.

" _Now that's interesting,"_ she thinks. She smiles at the psychiatrist, then excuses herself to call Joe.

Galen just nods – and continues to look at the door.

OooOooO

**Twenty-seven hours after Lucerne.**

Sherlock comes to their room after lunch – he does not eat – to find John sleeping and a box ( _cold case files – Lestrade – Mycroft's_ _interference – obvious_ ) sitting on their writing table. He looks at the doctor, then walks quietly over to the table to have a look. _Still, there might be something interesting._

He glances through it, then lifts out two plastic evidence bags and raises one eyebrow at the contents. He reads a note in Lestrade's handwriting.

" ** _Sherlock, these items were confiscated from the Wellington. We have no further need of them and I thought you might want to return them to John."_**

**_Greg_ **

He holds up the first bag, John's identification, National Health card, oyster card, copy of his medical license, driver's license, etc. He drops it back on top of the files, then raises an eyebrow at the contents of the second bag.

Sherlock removes John's watch, the one that was a gift from him to the doctor, then goes back to John's bedside. He thinks momentarily of removing the new watch from the sleeping doctor's wrist and replacing it with the one that he gave John as a gift, then shakes his head. Anything untoward or unexplained like that would just serve to confuse John further.

He settles for placing the watch in his pocket. He will return it to John later. Then Sherlock just stands there and watches his Army doctor sleep. A pain – in the shape of a large stone with jagged edges - has taken up residence in his chest and at times threatens to choke off his air supply.

Sherlock Holmes wonders how people live with these emotions – how they live with them and still continue to function.

OooOooO

**Forty-eight hours after Lucerne.**

Slowly, over the course of the next two days, a protective cocoon is woven around John Watson. He is never left alone, but this feat is accomplished subtly and without being obvious. The careful behavior that surrounds John is born of the respect he has called forth from those around him and from the fact that everyone likes the good doctor, likes him immensely. They are all saddened by his obvious weakening spirit. But no one knows what to do about it.

John has regularly-scheduled injections now, twice every twenty-four hour period, and so far, he has not had another attack. This fact encourages everyone. But John's emotional and mental behavior does not change. He is quiet to the extreme. Except for those few moments when he looks around for Sherlock – and appears anxious when he does not see the detective.

Doctor Fields confers privately with Sherlock during this time, then leaves to return to his practice. He assures the younger Holmes he is available, if needed, upon a phone call. Sherlock nods. And looks at John Watson as he sits with Mycroft's men, and plays cards.

John smiles at their little quips. But when Sherlock looks at him or touches him on the shoulder, John stands up to go with the detective, first nodding at those around him.

Everyone watches him go. Then they all look at each other.

John watches the clock. When it is time, Galen accompanies him to the bedroom he and Sherlock share, John sits on the edge of the bed, and the psychiatrist, aided by Lori Hansen, gives him the by-now hated injection. Then John sleeps. Lori volunteers to sit with him so Sherlock can work in his lab or on the box of case files Lestrade sent over.

But Sherlock just shakes his head and thanks her. Once the two men are alone, the detective sits on the side of the bed and kisses John on his dry lips and on his forehead.

John kisses him back. And shuts his eyes when he does so.

Sherlock intertwines their fingers and holds John's hand.

Then Sherlock makes John get back into bed. He sits next to him and holds the doctor's hand. He tries to joke with him. They talk with each other for a little while.

And then John sleeps - again. John's dark blue eyes close and Sherlock sits by his bedside until exhaustion forces him to lie down next to the doctor. He pulls back the covers and the sheets and gets into bed next to the man he loves. He pulls the doctor's small body to him, gently, carefully.

Sherlock maneuvers next to John so he can rest his tawny head on the detective's shoulder. Sherlock brushes his hands through the doctor's silky hair.

He whispers to John, as he strokes the dark blonde locks.

John never hears Sherlock whisper to him. He does not know the detective strokes his hair. Because John sleeps through all of it.

And while John sleeps, he gets on with the process he began several weeks back.

The long, slow, painful process of leaving.

And when John wakes again, he is that much farther away from Sherlock.

Sherlock's heart splinters, just a little bit more, every time the doctor wakes up with that strange look in his dark blue eyes. The look that tells the detective that another small part of John Watson has been left by the wayside, back there somewhere between his fitful sleep and his strange dreams.

And somewhere in Sherlock's mind, in that place that Sherlock is hesitant to go, in that small dark corner that he has sectioned off and reserved for the dark things, the truly terrible things, the detective knows he has begun – now - to number the hours he has left with John Watson.

Sherlock lies next to John, strokes his hair, and thinks that yes, Moriarty is dead. But the damage remains. Nothing else has changed. Not really.

Well, one small thing. One tiny thing.

John Watson has now begun to measure out what happiness Sherlock has left – in smiles - doling it out in tiny shy smiles or those quick flashes – those eager grins – the ones Sherlock treasures and - every once in a while - one of his brilliant sunny smiles, the **_John_** smiles.

It has been twelve hours since the doctor offered him one of those. The detective knows that it was the doctors' way of saying, _"I love you, you idiot. I love you. I always have and I always will. Here, take my heart. Keep it safe for me. I have no further need of it. Just keep it. Always."_

All of that – all of those promises – in one bright sunny smile. Sherlock takes the memory of that smile and locks it away. To be treasured, to be held until later. Much later, when he will take it out, mull over the memory, examine it and - put it away again.

The detective despises himself for this. Berates himself for giving up so easily; hates himself even while he does it. All the while he continues to count these things…these tiny precious things that all serve to make up John Watson.

All these things that have come to mean ** _John_** are now numbered, catalogued, noted and filed carefully away in the dark place, _this_ dark place, this place of shadows and sharp edges, where Sherlock now keeps the overwhelming emotions and drowning feelings and the great fucking heartache he is experiencing on a minute-by-minute basis – as well as the great fucking heartache that is yet to come.

This dark place that is nearly full.

A short time ago, a handful of months really, Sherlock Holmes understood what it was, at last, to have a heart.

And he understands – now – what it feels like when it's shattered.

OooOooO

"Mr. Billings?"

"Yes sir."

"I trust you received the email I sent you earlier?"

His long legs propped up on the desk edge, ankles crossed, Billings smiles idly in the deceptive peacefulness of his hotel room.

"Yes, Mr. Adair, I did receive it. And I understand."

"Excellent. You understand, Mr. Billings, that we cannot let circumstances such as these go – unpunished. It's bad for business – and exceedingly bad for morale. The remainder of the Board of Directors does expect – action – to take place."

Mick uncrosses his ankles and stands up to stretch. Then he grins.

"Mr. Adair, if there's one thing I understand, it's the need to improve morale."

"Excellent. I trust we understand each other then."

The two men hang up. Mick Billings tosses his mobile onto the bed, then crosses to his case to pull out a newly-purchased map. He places it on the desktop, and as he presses out the fold creases with one palm, he begins to whistle.

OooOooO

**Sixty-four hours after Lucerne**

When the answer comes to him, he can barely breathe.

Sherlock quietly gets out of their bed, without disturbing John, and pads over to the desktop. He switches on the reading lamp. Then he just sinks into the chair, steeples his fingers under his chin and thinks.

He thinks of the possibilities – and then the possible ramifications if it doesn't work.

He glances at his watch. 6:30 am. A little early to wake everyone up, including John.

Still – he dresses quickly, then pulls a notepad to him and begins to jot down a few notes.

When he's done, he checks his watch again. 7:00 a.m. Well, people are just going to have to wake up, that's all.

He pulls out his mobile and begins to text.

OooOooO

Sherlock stares at Maggie Oakton, then turns his head to look at Galen Dennison. The look on Dennison's face can best be described as horrified. He sighs and turns back to Oakton.

"Dr. Oakton, I assume that your response also means No."

She frowns, turns to look at Dennison, then back to Sherlock.

"Mr. Holmes, I have no response. I –" she sits back and removes her reading glasses.

"I don't know if this would work. You're asking me – or Galen," she turns to include Dennison in her words, "to put John Watson under, as it were. To ask him to "go to sleep", in effect to reproduce his actions in St. Anne's and by so doing, ask his subconscious mind to work out this "problem" he's experiencing." **

She looks across to Dennison who purses his lips and sits there, shaking his head back and forth.

"Have I got that right?" she asks Sherlock.

Sherlock begins to pace back and forth; his long legs eat up the carpet in the library.

Both hands are steepled under his chin. He comes to stop in front of the fireplace, cold now as the warming trend has meant that no one has felt the need to light the fire.

He thinks out loud. "There is, of course, no guarantee we would be able to wake him up."

He turns to regard both doctors. "We have to assume we'd be able to do that. And how to know when it's safe to do so?"

Not for the first time, Sherlock wonders what would happen to John if the doctor did not wake up. If he just kept on sleeping, processing.

Galen Dennison stirs, looks from one of them to the other as if he is the only sane human being in the room. Then he speaks, his words a little too loud in the quiet atmosphere of the library.

"The main problem here, Sherlock, besides the fact that I cannot even **_believe_** I am having this conversation in the first place is this: John's current mental state is chemical in nature. The man had ten injections of a botched experiment. He had another 12 or so injections using tainted hypodermics. We don't know, really, how much of the drug entered his bloodstream, just that it did."

Galen swipes one unsteady hand through his dark hair, then looks up at the detective again.

"His behavior on at least two occasions clearly indicates that he was subjected to the hypos that were also coated with psilocybin. It would help tremendously if we knew the bugger who actually tainted the needles. But failing that information, we simply do not know how much of the drug actually entered his blood."

Sherlock frowns at the psychiatrist. But he continues to listen.

Galen says, "We are continuing to test his blood – you yourself have run several tests on it and you informed us yesterday that nearly all traces of the original drug are, once again, gone from his blood. But this is not how addiction works, Sherlock. You must know that. We all know that. He craves this drug. He told me so himself here in his session yesterday morning."

Galen looks at Maggie for support. His eyes widen as he considers the ramifications of what Sherlock is asking. Then he looks back at the younger Holmes.

"How can you possibly expect the man's subconscious, sleeping brain, to do away with that? Meanwhile, we are subbing one addiction for the other and so far, John has not had any –"

Sherlock sits down, leans over, clasps his hands and regards both doctors with a raised eyebrow.

"Please understand, it's not the addiction I'm trying to deal with here."

He looks from Galen to Maggie.

"It's John's current mental state, as you put it. John has, quite simply, gone round the twist. If the chemicals forced this, I understand what you are saying, but no one is going to take him away, put him away, experiment on him."

Galen nearly explodes. "Now wait just a - experiment? We are talking about professional, competent medical and psychiatric care here—"

Sherlock looks at him steadily with cold grey eyes. "No, Doctor Dennison, we are talking about having John put away, for want of a better term, aren't we? And what an opportunity for certain individuals – the opportunity to have someone in their care who actually experienced addiction at the hands of Marcus Frank's drug. Let's stop skirting the issue here. Sod it, I listened to that tape. I know what John himself expects to happen to him. And quite soon too."

He looks from Dennison to Oakton. Maggie still stares ahead. She has said neither No nor Yes. He directs his next words to her and her alone.

"Doctor Oakton? You've seen John do this, firsthand. I understand Doctor Dennison's' reluctance –"

"Reluctance! Good God, man, neither one of us can be a party to this – this – New Age psychobabble."

Galen looks wide-eyed, at Sherlock, then glances at Maggie's face. His eyes widen even further.

"Mags! No! I cannot believe you are even considering this – "

"Galen, please."

Maggie sits back, her glasses in hand. She does not look at either one of them. She nods briefly, once. Then looks up at Sherlock.

"Mr. Holmes, it appears that I have more or less thrown in my lot with your brother. I do not think there is much I can do at this point, that will harm my professional reputation or my ability to practice in my chosen field. I seem to be – for want of a better term – under Mycroft Holmes' protective umbrella."

She grins at the metaphor. Then she turns to Galen. Her tone is serious and she speaks quietly to the psychiatrist.

"Galen, listen to me. No. Please don't interrupt. Just listen."

Galen opens his mouth to protest, then shuts it again and just nods. His eyes don't leave Maggie's brilliant green gaze.

She smiles at him. "Galen, no one is asking John Watson to do anything insane or untoward here. We are simply asking the man to go to sleep. For heaven's sakes, he won't even be drugged – unless you give him a scheduled injection beforehand."

She glances over at Sherlock. And nods at the detective.

"No one is hypnotizing John, and no 'psychobabble' as you call it, comes into it. We will ask the man to go to sleep. And while he sleeps, to work through his current emotional and mental state."

She leans back in her chair and unconsciously imitates Sherlock as she clasps both hands in her lap. "Frankly, I don't see the harm in this at all. And I am 100% confident that I can wake John Watson up when needed."

She looks over at Galen, smiles reassuringly, than at Sherlock.

"At any rate, I mean to try. When do we start, Mr. Holmes?"

Sherlock nods curtly, immensely relieved. "Thank you, Doctor Oakton."

He stands and swipes a pale hand through his dark curls. "First, I have to bring this up with John. Then – " he glances at his watch. "By noon? Right after lunch?"

Maggie Oakton comes to her feet and nods at Sherlock. "All right. We'll meet in the kitchen for lunch – and I'll accompany the both of you to your room then."

"Maggie – Mags, please." Galen stands up and puts one hand on her wrist. "Please – think about what you're doing."

"I have thought about it, Galen. What I'm doing is everything in my ability to save a good man's sanity. And we may have a very good shot at this. Unless you have a better idea, one that you think will work?"

Galen looks from her steady green gaze, to the grey eyes of the detective who towers over him. He sighs.

"No. I don't have any better ideas. Not now."

She nods. "Good. Mr. Holmes - go have that talk with John. I'll need Nurse Hansen to help us. I'll go speak with her now."

"She's in with John," Sherlock says.

Maggie nods. "All right, then. Please ask her to find me. I'll be right here, working on my notes for this session with John. What we ask him to do – and how we ask him to do it – will be extremely important. The words will most definitely matter, in this instance."

Sherlock regards her, then makes an instant decision. One that John Watson would approve, he thinks.

He holds out his hand to Maggie Oakton.

Startled, she looks at him, then extends her own hand and takes his.

Galen just groans.

OooOooO

Sherlock takes John outside the mansion, after he first insists the doctor dress warmly. The rain has passed, leaving the ground spongy. The air is extremely cool but not freezing. Here and there, a few bright green shoots have sprung up overnight. Soon, the gardeners will have to return. The two men walk over the rolling lawns, toward the creek.

When they reach the first of the small bridges, they stop and both lean over the railings to watch the rushing water below.

Sherlock begins to talk. John just listens. After a few minutes, he looks at Sherlock, then nods. Sherlock wraps John up in his embrace and the two men remain like that for several minutes. What they say to each other during this time remains private between the two of them.

Afterward, they walk slowly back to the mansion and go round the side into the kitchen.

The two men sit with Maggie, Lori and with Galen Dennison over the noon meal. A few minutes later, Jake Lynn wanders in to join them.

Neither of them eats much, John least of all, but at one imperious raised eyebrow, John Watson sighs, picks up his fork and tries again.

When the meal is over, John helps with the washing up, at his insistence, before they go back to their room. They agree that Maggie and Lori will meet them there in ten minutes.

OooOooO

John sits on the side of their bed, freshly showered, his hair still damp. He wears a cotton tee and boxers, army-issue olive drab in color, and wool socks. A single dog tag, highly polished, lies against the dark green tee shirt. Sherlock takes John's hands in his and leans his forehead against John's. They totally ignore the two women who have suddenly become very interested in what is going on outside the window, their backs to the room.

Sherlock reaches into his pocket – and withdraws John's missing watch, the one with the inscription on the back. John's eyes widen and he looks at the detective. Sherlock places the watch on John's wrist. John turns his wrist over and looks at the watch. He grins at the detective.

Sherlock grins back.

Sherlock kisses John on the lips and the forehead. John kisses Sherlock. They look into each other's eyes for a minute. Then Sherlock squeezes John's hand and the doctor nods once, then lies down. Sherlock covers him with the duvet and calls the woman over.

John looks up at Sherlock and sighs dramatically.

"Guess this means when I wake up, the bloody Foley will be back in."

Sherlock smiles. "Possibly, John. Unless you come back to us quickly."

The two men look at each other for a moment, then John sighs, shuts his eyes for a second or two, then reopens them to look at the ceiling.

Maggie Oakton pulls the chair over and sits by John's side of the bed.

She smiles reassuringly at the doctor. Then she glances down at her handwritten notes.

Sherlock stands back, out of John's vision. But the Army doctor knows he's there, just to the side. Lori Hansen stands behind Maggie. She winks at John.

He winks back, and smiles at the tiny nurse. Then he turns his head toward Maggie Oakton.

And nods once.

Maggie nods back. She puts her glasses on and looks at her notes one more time.

"Okay, John, let's do this."

Lori clicks off the room lights, then the bedside lamp. This leaves only the pale afternoon light to illuminate the room. Sherlock stands back, against the far wall, his arms crossed, and watches the proceedings.

Maggie's voice is quiet, calm and measured. John concentrates on the sound of her voice – on the cadence - as he deliberately calms his breathing.

"John, as we say back in Texas, this is for the whole shooting match."

John turns his head to find Sherlock across the room. Their eyes meet and Sherlock raises one inquisitive eyebrow. John looks at him. Then he returns his attention to Maggie Oakton. His arms lie by his side and he consciously relaxes his hands.

John Watson takes a deep breath.

And shuts his eyes.

OooOooO

** John's ability to "Go into the Silence" forms the basis of Chapter 4, THE BOYS OF BAKER STREET. Please refer back to Ch. 4 if you have forgotten. Thanks! (Also DEBRIEFING – located on ff dot net and soon to be posted here on AO3.)


	18. Chapter 18

**These characters, in their current incarnation, belong to the BBC, and not to me, and in their original incarnation, to the estate of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.**

**THE BOYS OF BAKER STREET**

**CH 18**

**NOTE: This ongoing work is a Trilogy.  This is Book Two.   This work occasionally references events that occurred in Book One:  THERE BUT FOR THE GRACE OF JOHN WATSON. If you have not read that work, you might not "get" some of the references in this story. You might want to stop right here and go read GRACE first, then come back to BOYS.  Otherwise, your reading experience will not have the intensity that I labored so hard to create for you.**

**This work is a trilogy. GRACE is Book One; BOYS is Book Two; Book Three, Parts One and Two, follows immediately upon the heels of BOYS.**

**OooOooO**

**PROMISES: Violence.**

**Murder and attempted Murder.**

**Chemical Interrogation, Non-Con.**

" **New Age Psychobabble" - Con.**

**1980's Rock Music**

**WARNINGS: John Angst. Sherlock Angst. Mycroft Angst. Anthea Angst. Lestrade Angst.**

OooOooO

Mycroft Holmes does, at times, bow to the inevitable.

When it suits him.

In this instance, it suits him to ask Anthea to issue an invitation to the rather delightful Korean delegate for a small, private dinner.

"After all," he thinks, "half the damn building has us – together. Perhaps if conditions are acceptable, dinner might be followed by certain _other_ pleasing activities."

"Make it a four-star rather than a five-star restaurant," he says to her when she returns to assure him of the almost eager acceptance tendered by that individuals' own personal assistant.

She raises one beautiful eyebrow.

He smiles at her. More to smile at her than for any other reason.

"This is a small dinner tendered upon behalf of a member of the British Government to the representational member of the Korean government. It is not personal, not per se'. Let's not give the British public any more reason to cry foul about our expenses then they already do."

She sighs at him. "Sir, you do realize that there is no way in hell you can make this a "small private" dinner for two. We have a standing list of over seventeen officials, both sides, who will, of course, expect to be invited. And that means, this dinner can only take place a week or more from now, not this evening, dependent upon everyone's acceptance. And that means, of course –"

He smiles at her. "Only seventeen? Remarkable."

He sighs. "Forgive me, please. I was thinking aloud. Remind me of the times the Korean – gentleman – avails himself of the gymnasium facilities at the hotel they are using?"

She consults her Blackberry, looks back up at him.

"Mornings. 6:00 to 6:45. Afternoons. 1:00 to 1:45 –"

"Then please have my car ready on time in order for me to – intercept – the gentleman in question at the club facilities this afternoon at 12:45. And 'leak' that fact to his personal assistant. Perhaps, after this impromptu meeting, he will then do me the honor of joining me for luncheon at the, er- onsite restaurant."

She looks at him, slightly askance. "A hotel restaurant? Sir?"

He smiles at her and it is the smile of a naughty little boy.

"I believe it is listed as a four-star. Yes. That will be acceptable."

She nods. One impromptu luncheon at an acceptable Four-Star Restaurant. Coming right up. And the fact that it just happens to be located in the hotel that the gentleman in question is utilizing, well -

As she goes back out again, he sighs. There is a part of him, he has to admit, that would dearly love to make this meal personal - _per se'_ – of course.

" _Well, we will see what we will see,"_ he muses.

Mycroft mentally dismisses the delegate and reads the report she has brought him, then sets the pages carefully on the blotter in front of him and leans back to think.

It is typical of his younger brother, he thinks, for Sherlock to create the mess – then expect Mycroft to clean it up. However, in this instance, Mycroft hastens to oblige. In this instance.

That there is more to James Moriarty's "network" than one criminal mastermind – and one now defunct soldier of fortune – both he and Sherlock knew. You do not build an empire like Moriarty's without having several other branches scattered around the globe, as well as "cohorts" for want of a better word, waiting in the wings.

However, after much research, including hands-on by his agents actually on the scene in Switzerland, it appears that the bulk, if not all, of that network consists of very real business dealings, some dubiously legal, some not, and of one rather ambiguously appointed Board of Directors, most of whom are situated here and there around the globe.

 _All of whom,_ Mycroft supposes, _may have very real qualms about their Principal Shareholder and President of the Board disappearing without a trace from the face of the planet._

Mycroft requested that the usual minor news articles be published – all local Swiss rags – detailing the unfortunate death by seizure of one expat businessman, who had invested heavily in the local economy. No follow-up stories tendered. None requested. And no further interest evidenced, by either the local news agencies or any local businesses that might have had dealings with one James Moriarty. _Remarkable. Reports are still coming in, of course. Still …_

The man's own administrator showed little interest when the cleaning crew, masquerading as an ambulance and medical team, showed up not less than fifteen minutes after Sherlock and his agents had left, to collect and then discretely dispose of Moriarty's mortal remains. According to his people, she appeared to be sorting out her desk when they arrived on the scene. And she simply sat there and watched while the covered body was removed on a gurney.

Either everyone is more or less thinking, "Good riddance," – or Moriarty has his network so well trained that they are loathe to take a single step without him or – possibly - have been ordered to take no action in the event of his publicized death. Which begs the question: What now?

From what he reads, Mycroft deduces that most of Moriarty's transactions occurred on a one-on-one basis – between the master criminal and whatever individual, organization, or corrupt government he was intent upon dealing with at the time. And that most of these dealings involved the exchange of cash.

He reads the last of her reports, then slips them back into the folder labeled JM on his desk.

Mycroft allows himself exactly three minutes to muse on the method of the consulting criminals' – execution – for want of a better word.

Truth be told, Mycroft has to applaud the singularly _considered_ method that his younger brother used to dispatch the consulting criminal. He merely raised one eyebrow at his brother's plans. He has firsthand evidence that where John Watson's welfare is concerned, Sherlock can be ruthless to the extreme.*

Mycroft has no problems with Sherlock's actions in this instance, nor did he have any with his brother's cold-blooded execution of one Doctor Marcus Franks in the lower levels of the Wellington museum. _It is all_ , as Mycroft muses _, just means to an end._

Considering the absolute hell the murdering psychopath subjected both John and Sherlock to, well, Mycroft spares no sympathy for Mr. James Moriarty.

The fact that in this particular instance, Sherlock's plans fell right in with Mycroft's for the psychotic criminal, well, that was most satisfactory. If Sherlock had not taken a hand, Mycroft would have and quite soon. (And yes, Mycroft had insisted his people actually thumb open one of the corpses' eyes and take a look to ensure that the pupils were coal black in color. He did not want a repeat of the mistake made in the Wellington. Unfortunately, the pupils were blown from the effects of the massive drug overdose.) Still, all other physical evidence and description guaranteed that the man dead in that conference room was one James Moriarty.

He glances at the report which details the description of the body and winces in disgust. That this same drug, in much smaller doses, was administered to Doctor John H. Watson still sickens him.

Ah, well, the tedious DNA tests will be completed quite soon, probably within the day, and they can then stamp SUBJECT DECEASED on the file folder that is simply labeled JM.

Moriarty is and will be, officially and most irrevocably - dead. And that is the entire point.

However -

Mycroft knows there are quite a few loose ends to pick up, business-wise, as undoubtedly the Board will demand to know the disposition of certain – _assets_ (read _cash_ here.)

Mycroft ensured that Moriarty's immediate cash reserves were frozen and that this was done with alacrity. After all, what more likely to occur once a prominent businessman dies unexpectedly than for his bank accounts to be frozen, at least temporarily, until the matter is decided. And to give the local authorities time to search for family members, probable heirs, while the surviving business partners begin to come forward and demand the immediate release of the funds.

None of which has occurred in this instance _. And that in itself is rather suspicious,_ thinks Mycroft.

He reads the report of Moriarty's business dealings in Lucerne and notes the names of the Chairman – one Ronald Adair. Adair is a prominent businessman, English by birth, whose only noted vice (other than his dealings with James Moriarty) appears to be a predilection for gambling, namely roulette. Adair can more often than not be found at the roulette tables in a certain casino located in the heart of Paris, France – where he is a frequent winner.

No other vices, that anyone can determine. No women. No men. No drugs, and that includes cigarettes. Hell, the man doesn't even drink more than the occasional martini – vodka, not gin. And more importantly, no record of violence or past criminal activity. No, Mycroft's people can find nothing in Adair's background that rings any alarm bells, other than his obvious association with Moriarty. Because of that reason alone, Mycroft requests that Adair be put under surveillance.

But then there is Lieutenant Michael, "Mick", Billings. Not mentioned in the report in front of him but when his photograph is run through the facial recognition program utilized at John's funeral – well, once Mycroft views his digital photograph and then peruses the service record of the ex-military man, at least one or two little bells do begin to – if not ring – at least evince a chime or two.

And it is this same Michael Billings, former Lieutenant in her Majesty's Army, that D.I. Lestrade displayed misgivings over at John Watson's "memorial service." The same Michael Billings who apparently entered the country just a few days ago – point of origin: Switzerland.

Mycroft Holmes does not believe in coincidence. It is a common trait shared by both Holmes brothers.

" _Interesting_ ," thinks Mycroft. _We will, of course, have to detain the man for questioning. I have to know if anyone else is coming after my brother – or John._

He enters an order for the immediate detention of one Michael Billings. Upon second thought, he adds a request that Moriarty's former administrator be pulled in for local questioning, as well.

Mycroft places the photograph back in the folder with the reports and sits back. He reaches for his tea and decides that John Watson must remain deceased just a little while longer.

OooOooO

"Mr. Billings? I trust you received my latest communique?"

Billings nods briefly at the question and smiles at the rather formal term. Why not just say email? He realises the man can hardly see a nod over the phone and leans over to hit the 'talk' button on his phone. He goes back to cleaning his gun.

"Yes sir. I just wanted to get a few things clear."

"Very well. Proceed."

Billings sets down his weapon of choice, a Sig Sauer P226, and picks up a rag to wipe his hands. He leans slightly toward the phone as he speaks.

"I have a few – friends – who are more than eager to help out. Apparently even mentioning the name 'Holmes' acts as a trigger with certain individuals who are most happy to oblige. Obtaining the weapons is not that difficult, not with the avenues open to my "friends." It's that other course of action you mentioned – "

"Ah, yes. Please do not worry yourself overmuch about that. That entire scenario is being taken care of. In fact, everything should be in place by tomorrow. And then we can proceed."

"All right." Billings tosses the rag down and considers the wall opposite him, the wall that currently has a map displayed on it, stuck into place with small pins. He glances back at the phone on the desk in front of him.

"Mr. Adair, I'm not used to not knowing all the principal players, if you understand me. A lot is at stake here, including my life and those of my _friends._ "

Adair's voice is cool, to say the least. "Mr. Billings, I understand your point of view; however, in this instance, the less you know the better. All you have to do is, I believe the term is 'establish a perimeter', then take those actions we outlined – and wait. Waiting, in your instance, may be the hardest part as I know you to be a man of action."

Billings grins at that, pleased. "A man of action." He likes that _. All right then_. The new boss is obviously in control and he can get back to doing what he does best – create chaos.

"All right, Mr. Adair. I just wanted us to be clear with each other." He picks up the rag again and goes back to cleaning the Sig.

"Believe me, Mr. Billings. That is my fervent wish, also. I have need of a man of your talents. Once this particular _scenario_ is past us, I expect you back here so we can establish a more firm working relationship. One that will be cemented by your actions over the next few days. I will speak with you again shortly."

Billings hits the talk button, hangs up the phone. And grins at his gun.

OooOooO

His usual 16 hours of work complete, Mycroft considers his plans for that afternoon and evening. Even the British Government can, presumably, take a few well-earned hours off now and then, if not the entire day, then at least a satisfactory fraction thereof.

He thinks over his options, then nods and calls Anthea in for a moment.

She listens and smiles, pleased that he is finally going to take if not an actual vacation, then at least a small respite from the near constant work. She then goes to confirm the plans for the British Government to meet and have lunch with the oh-so-attractive Korean delegate.

At her desk, Anthea taps the end of her pen against the desktop. Four-star restaurant?

If this were only Mycroft Holmes, alone, having dinner with someone, then, yes, five-star definitely and damn the cost. But he is right in this instance. Four-star is definitely the way to go.

And even this tiny indulgence will undoubtedly call forth outcries from those who feel a simple, cheap, and oh-so-British lunch of fish and chips is all the occasion calls for. She smiles at the thought.

Anthea firms up the plans, then goes in to inform Mycroft that the Korean "gentleman in question" looks forward, indeed, to meeting with him. She then returns to her desk, glances at her To Do List and picks up her purse to go to her own lunch and perhaps get in a little shopping while she is at it.

OooOooO

Greg Lestrade sits at his desk and ignores his rapidly cooling cup of coffee. He listens to the patter of light rain at the window and wonders if it is going to rain forever. The fact that it stopped raining for an entire day escapes him. He leans back in his chair and stares out the glass window into the office in front of him. His people go about their jobs, quickly, efficiently, but from time to time, one of them will glance at his office – and nod at the D.I. He nods back. Then they all go back to what they were doing.

He swivels around to look at the window, then gets up to shut the blinds. _Sod this rain._

He has just read an email from her, from Mycroft Holmes assistant. Anthea? Is that what her name is? Good God, save him. Of course, she couldn't pick a pseudonym like Mary, Cathy, _Sally._ He winces at the thought. _No. Has to be sodding **Anthea.**_

Mycroft's assistant's penchant for drama aside, the email highly disturbs him.

Apparently, this Michael Billings is nowhere to be found. Not in the city of London. Not in its environs. Nowhere, as a matter of fact. It is as if the damn man vanished off the face of the earth. And in the last few days, too.

He frowns and rubs one rough hand against his temple. _Sod this. Just sod this entire week and the funeral he just attended and sod the fact that he has lost a valued friend and associate and sod Mycroft Holmes_. Upon reflection, Greg Lestrade adds Sherlock Holmes to his mental _sod_ list.

After thinking it over, he adds _"sod the entire world"_ and goes out to get a fresh cup of coffee, hot this time.

_How can the bloody man just vanish from the bloody world? How?_

OooOooO

Anthea enters the car park and walks toward her car. She automatically glances upward at the surveillance camera and gives it a full face view. _Ingrained habit._ She drops her Blackberry into the corner pocket of her purse, while she digs for her keys. At the door of her car, she hears the sound of tapping heels behind her and turns in time to see one of the assistants from the admin pool who hurries toward her. Her mind reaches for the slightly older woman's name – Pat – no, Trish. Tricia, that's it. Tricia. Assistant to one of the rather minor, and she feels, utterly pointless government officials, who nevertheless manages to take up one-third of the available office space on the second floor.

"God, I'm so glad I caught you, love. Going to lunch, then?"

Anthea smiles. "Yes, Tricia. And a bit of shopping too. Can I drop you somewhere?"

Tricia grins appreciatively. "I won't lie. Saw you get into the elevator and figured I could beg a ride. My ride's in the shop. Bloody nuisance of a thing. Second time this month."

"Not a problem. Glad of the company. Hope you like Thai."

Anthea indicates the passenger side of the car, while she hits the small button on the entry key with a manicured fingertip. The car door beeps at her, and unlocks.

"Actually, I just need the lift. I'm meeting my real estate agent, just a few blocks over, but can't walk the entire way, looks like more rain."

Anthea smiles gently. "I don't mind at all."

While the other woman settles herself in the passenger seat, Anthea hears the text chime, fishes the Blackberry out of her purse with one hand. She frowns at the screen.

"Tricia? I need to answer this. Won't take but a minute or two. Here, go ahead and start her up and get the heat going. It's cool out here."

Tricia nods. "Take your time. I just appreciate the lift." She takes the key and leans over to place it in the ignition.

Anthea nods distractedly, as she quickly walks several yards away for the privacy. She hears the engine start up behind her, as she begins to text while she walks.

The world explodes.

OooOooO

Mycroft seats himself opposite the other man and smiles across at him.

"Very kind of you to meet me under such short notice."

The Korean, an extremely handsome, trim man with an engaging disposition, smiles back at him.

"Actually, I was hoping we could meet in a more – private – venue such as this." He indicates the restaurant with a minor flourish of one slim hand. Only a few diners have taken their seats. His English is impeccable.

Mycroft shakes his cloth napkin into his lap as he glances at the man opposite. ( _South Korean by birth; educated at Oxford; Took a first in two, make that three languages; speaks French like a native; two years younger – hence five years older than Sherlock; parents deceased; one sister, younger, and yes, pupils ever so slightly dilated and faint sheen on upper lip – he's definitely interested. Good.)_

"I'm not certain I would consider a restaurant as exactly private, but I believe I understand."

The Korean gentleman smiles at Mycroft, his whitened teeth near blinding. "Actually, upon occasion, the more crowded the surroundings, the more privacy one has."

"Ah, yes." Mycroft nods his concurrence, signals for the wine steward, if this place even runs to one.

It turns out it does. The business of ordering disposed of, Mycroft settles in to what he hopes will be a pleasant meal with engaging companionship.

"Sir." Mycroft looks up at his driver who has appeared at his elbow. His frown at being interrupted turns to a serious stare when he sees the man's face.

The man bends over Mycroft and whispers in his ear. Mycroft's complexion pales. He stands, tosses his napkin on the table and bends slightly from the waist toward the Korean delegate.

"My most sincere apologies. There has been a rather serious accident involving one of my – colleagues."

His mind searches for the correct words in order not to insult this man any further. He reaches for his umbrella and overcoat, as his driver hands them to him.

The delegate also stands, notes Mycroft’s obvious discomfiture and concern, then bows slightly. "I understand. Please go attend. I hope your friend will be well."

Mycroft nods once, then follows his driver out, the delegate already dismissed. His heartbeat accelerates and he can feel the pulse in his throat quicken and threaten to choke off his air supply.

_Anthea._

OooOooO

**Sixty-eight hours after Lucerne.**

John slips easily into what he calls the first level. He's aware that Maggie sits to his left, speaking in a slow, clear cadence. Lori stands behind her. And Sherlock leans against the far wall, his long legs crossed at the ankles, his arms crossed over his chest, and watches the proceedings. His eyes never leave John Watson's tired face.

He can feel Sherlock's' quiet gaze upon him. Nothing extraordinary there. He has always been able to feel Sherlock through his very bones.

Maggie Oakton glances at her notes.

"John, before we begin, please understand this is not an attempt at hypnosis or at any sort of control over your thoughts or emotions. At any and all times, you are in 100% control of your actions, your mind, and your thoughts. I am simply guiding you toward an outcome that you and Sherlock Holmes discussed earlier today. John, I realize that your thoughts, at this moment, may feel a bit _scattered._ This is not your fault, John. You have been ill. But because of this, I need you to concentrate on two things only: the sound of my voice and on my words. Just concentrate on what I am saying, John. Please tune out all other distractions. All other sounds. Just concentrate on the sound of my voice. Can you do that, John?"

John nods once. He attempts to control his breathing _. Sherlock … Sherlock … Sherlock …_

"Good. Very good. Now, John, what I am asking you to do is quite simple. I want you to go to sleep. I want you to sleep, John, and while you sleep, to re-enter your memories. You have done this before, John.** You have done this on a few occasions, usually after a difficult case. You have told Sherlock that you call this "going into the silence." Do you understand my words to you, John?"

John nods. His breathing slows, becomes more rhythmic. He hears the slight patter of rain as it hits the window. Someone moves to shut the window, pull the curtains. Lori, probably. Must tune her out.

He nods. The sounds around him begin to fade away _. sherlock … sherlock …_

"Good. Now, John, remember. You are to concentrate on my voice and on my words. Please ignore all other sounds around you, all other people around you. Can you do this, John? Can you concentrate solely on my words and the sound of my voice, to the exclusion of all else?"

John frowns slightly. _Tune out Sherlock?_

" _You have to do this, John. It's utterly necessary – to both of us."_ Sherlock's words at the small bridge, spoken earlier that day, drift over him like a breeze. Yes. He must do this. This is important.

Tune out Sherlock. But … _it's Sherlock_ _…_

John nods. And slips into the second level.

His thoughts immediately begin to move in a more orderly fashion. He sighs.

"Very good. John, I want you to remember the day you were kidnapped. This memory will wash over you. It will not disturb you. Your heart rate will remain calm. Your blood pressure will remain stable Your thoughts will remain calm and orderly. All you have to do is remember. You must simply remember that day. That evening. The evening you were shot in the clinic. The evening you were kidnapped and taken away. The day of the week was Sunday. It was extremely cold but clear out. Do you remember that day, John?"

John nods. His hands remain open and still beside him.

"Very good. Now, John, I want you to remember that day first. I want you to remember your actions on that day. Can you do that for me, John? Can you go back and observe your own actions without becoming part of them? Without being hurt by them, in any way? Please nod if you understand what I am asking you to do."

John nods. His left hand fists slightly, then relaxes.

"Very good. Now, John, please listen to the sound of my voice. I want you to view your actions on that evening. Then I want you to come forward and view the events of the next few days. AT NO TIME will you dwell on these events. You will not become agitated or concerned over them. You can view your own actions. But they are simply memories, John. They are simply memories. These memories cannot hurt you, John. Nothing can hurt you without your permission. Can you still hear me, John, and do you understand what I am asking you to do? Please nod if you can hear me and understand what I am asking of you."

There is the briefest of moments. Sherlock holds his breath. Maggie's pen hovers over her notepad.

Then … John nods - once.

Maggie lets out a breath she doesn't even know she has been holding.

"Very good, John. Now John, I want you to listen carefully to me. At any time during this, if you need to wake up, I want you to just wake up. And we'll call a halt to this. Now, John, once you begin to remember, John, I want you to let those memories wash over you, and I want you to come forward, John. You are not to dwell upon anything that happened to you in captivity. I want you to just skip forward to the day you first woke up in St. Anne's and first realized that you were safe. That you were safe and among friends. Can you do that for me, John?"

John nods. Once.

Maggie sighs.

"Very good, John. Now please listen and understand. You are then to come forward from that day in St. Anne's to the present. And your thoughts will remain calm. Your thoughts will remain orderly. You will remember everything that has happened to you but at no time will you let these memories affect your heart rate, or your breathing. At no time will you let any of these memories affect your mental or emotional or physiological processes. None of these memories can hurt you, John, in any way, unless you let them. Do you understand, John?"

John nods.

"Very good, John. Now, John, you are just about to go to sleep. And while you sleep, John, I want you to process everything that has happened to you since the day of your shooting and kidnapping. You have put yourself through a similar process upon other occasions. You know how to do this. I want you to remember what has occurred to you, the thoughts you had at the time, the actions that you and everyone around you took in response to those events. John – you will remember everything that has happened to you. And those will be just memories. And as you remember, John, I want you to take one particular course of action."

Maggie glances up at Sherlock and her brilliant green eyes meet his cool grey gaze. She raises one eyebrow. He nods at her. She swallows and glances down at her notes. Then looks back up at the sleeping man in front of her. Behind her, Lori's small hands tense on the back of the chair that Maggie sits in.

"John, this action is what you and Sherlock Holmes agreed to earlier today. I want you to do what you have always done when you enter the silence. John, I want you to process everything that has happened to you. I want you to review what has happened to you, John. I want you to remember what actions you took, both mentally and physically, in response to each event that has occurred. And, John? You are currently undergoing treatment for a physical condition – an addiction – that occurred because of these events. This treatment will not be changed. You are beginning to respond to it and it is beginning to help you. You cannot change any physical actions you have taken in the last few weeks. Or anything of a physical nature that has occurred to you. But, John, you can correct any mental and emotional actions you may have taken that have affected you wrongly or have hurt you in any way. Your actions, both mental and emotional, are entirely up to you, John. What you do or not do, is up to you. It is entirely your choice and always has been.

"John, I want you to take whatever actions you personally feel you need to take, if any, in order to be happy, healthy and at peace with yourself. And once you have done that, John, I need you to wake up and come back to us. And John, please know that at no time will you be left alone here. Every single minute of every hour you will have someone right here with you, John - either Sherlock or myself or Ms. Hansen or one of Mycroft's people or Doctor Fields or Doctor Galen Dennison. You will never be left alone, John, while you do this thing."

John does not move. Maggie looks at him, her eyes wide with concern.  And apprehension.

"John? Do you understand everything I have told you? Do you understand what we—I want you to do?"

John does not move. Sherlock stands up straight, uncrosses his arms, and looks at the face of the man he loves. And frowns.

Sherlock glances from Maggie to John. He thinks, _"And how is this not hypnosis? But – it's our only chance."_

He does not stop her.

"John? You have been ill and it is not your fault that your thoughts have been scattered, that they have become chaotic. I want you to go into your memories, John, and then come forward. And as you come forward, John, I want you to observe not only your physical actions and reactions, but your mental and emotional ones, as well. And as you come forward, John, I want you to make any corrections you feel you need to make – if any - in order to ensure your mental and emotional health, to be happy, to be yourself, and then I want you to wake up and come back to us."

Maggie swallows and looks at John Watson closely.

"Do you understand me, John?"

Silence. John does not move. Sherlock gazes at the beloved face. _"John – Please."_

Maggie winces and thinks, _"I've gone too far. I should give them my license now and be done with it. God, Galen was right. I'm insane. This is insane. Maggie – what have you done? What if I've harmed him? What if I've just made things worse? What if he—"_

Then _– "At last, at last_ ," Sherlock thinks, John Watson nods once.

John nods. And slips quietly into Level Three.

OooOooO

She comes to slowly, aware that her shoulder hurts and her right wrist _– oh hell, everything hurts._ " _What in the hell just happened?"_

She attempts to push herself to her feet, realises she is going to have to settle for just sitting up. Anthea props herself up shakily next to the wall, winces at the corner of the pillar as it gores into her back and spine and frowns at the tires of the car that has inexplicably appeared in her central vision. She takes mental stock. No gaping wounds that she can see – or feel. Both arms work, both hands and wrists work. Must do because they hurt like hell. She must have fallen forward and tried to catch herself with her palms. She holds up one shaking palm and sees the faint skinning, the blood. She shudders and lowers her hand – and hisses as the raw skin comes into contact with the pavement.

She shuts her eyes momentarily, tries to dispel the tiny floating pixels in front of her eyes, then takes a deep breath and reopens her eyes. Her hair is in her eyes and she tries to raise one hand to brush it aside. Winces, gives it up.

She looks at her legs, mentally moves her awareness to them. Good. Both legs work. She can see them stretched out in front of her. Stockings ruined. Sod the stockings, her legs work. Both feet there and intact. Good. She wriggles her toes. Good. But - one shoe seems to be missing. God damn it – another pair of Manolo Blahnik's gone south.

Anthea takes a deep breath and tries to push herself upward to stand. Gives it up as a lost cause when she realizes that she is shaking, as if with fever. And realises that reaction and shock have set in. She gently slides back to a sitting position.

Shock? Why should she be in shock?

She can hear shouts now, running feet, but none of them seem to be running toward her. Someone appears to be talking extremely loudly and agitatedly just a few feet away from her.

"Oh fucking God. Don't tell me it was **_her_**. Jesus Bloody Christ. Hand me your phone, will you?"

"Someone get a sodding extinguisher. And hurry. We can still—"

"Are you freaking kidding me? Get back, the damn petrol is going to go—"

At the word, "petrol" Anthea's eyes widen. Instinctively, she scoots closer to the cement wall behind her, curls inward upon herself, making her body into as small a bundle as possible in the space made by the wall and the pillar - and throws her arms over her head.

The world explodes for the second time in nine and a half minutes.

OooOooO

Mycroft shakes his head at his driver, gets into the front seat, while his driver climbs into the passenger seat - and guns the engine. He pulls out of the hotel parking lot. Cars get out of his way quickly. He drives with single-minded purpose, ignores the siren of the police car that has come up behind them.

Another panda car joins the first when Mycroft refuses to pull over. He glances at the flashing lights in the rearview mirror _. Good. They can act as escort._

He gives terse orders to his driver. "Find out exactly who's on the scene. Pull the security tapes. I want them waiting for me. Get that car park cleared except for any medical personnel. Call ahead to Bart's. I want their best surgeon on hand – in case … And call Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade at the Yard. Now!"

The man hastens to comply. He does not bother to tell Mr. Holmes that all of his requests have already been carried out. With one exception. He dials New Scotland Yard.

And prays.

OooOooO

Galen Dennison comes into the kitchen. Maggie sits there quietly, her head in her hands. She glances up as he comes in. Her face is ashen.

He shakes his head, then crosses over to turn down the radio a bit. Maggie certainly loves her 80's sounds **. "Toto,"** he thinks. " _Good band."_

He sits next to her and puts one warm hand over hers that lies on the counter top. She doesn't move her hand. He doesn't move his.

"Tell me," he says quietly.

"… _But she hears only whispers of some quiet conversation …"_

She sighs and raises her dark head. Her green eyes look into his brown ones. "I don't know, Galen. I think it'll be all right. But I just don't know." She glances at the notepad in front of her. The pen drops from her hand and rolls along the counter top.

"… _Hurry boy, she's waiting there for you…"_

He bites back a retort. Decides this is no time for "I told you so's." Instead, he scoots his stool a little closer to hers and puts one arm around her slender shoulders.

Maggie looks at him in confusion, then just sighs and leans her head against him.

"… _It's gonna take a lot to drag me away from you  
There's nothing that a hundred men or more could ever do…"_

Doctor Galen Dennison, world prominent addiction psychiatrist, sits there at the counter, while Doctor Margaret Oakton, world prominent psychological counselor, leans her head against his shoulder - and looks out the kitchen windows at the slanting rain.

"… _Gonna take some time to do the things we never had…"_

He shuts his eyes.

OooOooO

**Seventy hours after Lucerne.**

Sherlock sits at the writing desk and goes through cold case files. From time to time, he glances over at the sleeping man in their bed.

He stares hungrily at John's face. Then pulls his attention back to the files in his hand. He flips through and ignores the first three. _(Unsolved snatch and grab - Pedestrian. Boring. Unsolved murder - it was the live-in housekeeper, Lestrade. Unsolved? Really? With that alibi and the state of his shirt collar? Do pay attention, Lestrade. Oh good … and I mean that sarcastically, Lestrade … another stolen cache of jewels. Boyfriend. NO, sorry, make that girlfriend. They had a lover's pact. She dies, then She gets the jewels to tide her over. For bloody sakes', Lestrade. Even your trained chimps could see this one.)_

He flips over to the fourth folder, glances through it, pauses. He pulls out two photographs, both in color, then reads the case report. Sherlock raises one eyebrow, then picks up a pen and scribbles in the margin in his spidery handwriting. "Find out who ordered the opera tickets for that night. He or she is your murderer." He glances at the file one last time, then places it on the stack, reaches to pull another folder from the box. ( _Oh bloody hell … another domestic murder. The daughter, Lestrade. Younger, not older. Still old enough to be charged, though. He ticks off the girls' name, circles her photograph, flips the file over.)_

And looks over at John again. The doctor is still. Not even his left hand exhibits a tremor. Good.

Sherlock pulls another three files from the box.

OooOooO

Anthea wakes for the second time in a few minutes – and remembers everything. She rolls cautiously to her side, then just as cautiously tries to sit up. And fails miserably. Sighing, she eases back down onto one side, the one that doesn't hurt, and cradles her aching head on one arm. Presumably, eventually, someone will find her there. And my God, but it is bloody cold there on the pavement of the car park. She shakes uncontrollably.

She thinks briefly of her Blackberry, then of her purse. Then begins to giggle. _"Idiot. You can't giggle. You're at a crime scene_ ," she tells herself.

Then she remembers Tricia. And her eyes fill.

OooOooO

_"Stop that," he murmurs. Sherlock is standing directly behind him now. He can feel Sherlock through his very bones._

_"Stop what?" murmurs the detective._

_Sherlock bends slightly over him, whispers into his left ear. He shudders._

_He finishes drying his hands, turns directly into Sherlock's embrace._

_"Stop this," he whispers. "It's very unprofessional. If someone else comes in for treatment –"_

_"If someone else comes in, they can bloody well wait a moment," murmurs Sherlock._

_Sherlock bends over slightly, He automatically tilts his head up, and Sherlock kisses him fully on the lips …_

In his sleeping mind, John Watson dutifully goes over the events of the day he was kidnapped.

Sherlock sits at the table, watches over the sleeping doctor, and solves Lestrade's cold cases.

Outside the window, the rain continues unabated.

OooOooO

Mycroft drives straight into the car park, neatly twists the car around the first two turns and comes to a dead stop when he nearly slams into the corner of the ambulance. He yanks the door open, then barks a command at the man in the passenger seat.

"Get this thing out of their way – now!"

His driver nods, moves into the driver's seat and proceeds to back the car out of the car park.

Mycroft is out and moving around the ambulance now, then comes to a standstill when he sees the burning car. The fire is nearly out. The fire crew is still foaming what is left of the car – her car. People part and allow him to pass. Someone chokes back a sharp outburst.

He glances at the number painted on that particular parking space, nearly obscured now with soot. Yes, it's her space. He notes the car, blasted to bits, then turns to look at the gurney, the gurney which holds the slight covered form.

The relative gloom of the car park is alive with flashing lights – red, blue, white, yellow, amber.

People are everywhere. They stand about in groups, some of them talking quietly. Others stand away by themselves and shake their heads. A few glance up at him as he approaches. They look at him, then look away, sickened.

He moves slowly toward the gurney, as if he has momentarily forgotten how to walk. The covered form looks tiny, impossibly small. He comes to stand over it and his breath hitches. Then his eyes narrow.

Someone will pay with their life for this. Slowly, after much suffering.

He reaches out one hand to pull the blanket back.

"Please don't, Sir." Mycroft glances up. It's one of his own men.

"There – there isn't a lot left."

Mycroft looks at the man as if he wants to skin him alive. The agent swallows. "Please sir. Let us take care of this."

Mycroft shakes his head. He reaches out again. And stops when he hears the man's shocked "Holy buggering hell!"

He glances up. And sees Anthea as she limps out from behind one of the parked vehicles, moving slowly and being helped by a paramedic who struggles to make her lie down.

"Please, Miss," he says. "Please. You have to stop now and let us have a look."

It is suddenly quiet in the car park. More than two dozen people stop talking at once.

Anthea raises her head – and looks straight into Mycroft Holmes' steel eyes.

She looks at him, shakes her head. And faints dead away.

OooOooO

**Seventy-one point five hours after Lucerne.**

_He stares at the tray, at the hypo, at the doctor and nurse, then at Moran, standing directly behind her now._

_Moran tightens his grip on the Sig Sauer – and points it directly at the back of the young nurse's head._

_Moran grins ... "oh fucking God. He's going to shoot her."_

At the slight moan, Sherlock drops the file in his hand and hurries to the bedside to stand over John Watson. John moans softly and both his hands clench and unclench. Then he becomes still again.

Sherlock frowns at John's face and runs one hand through his dark curls.

This had better work – for both their sakes. More than anything he wants to reach out, run a hand through the silky spikes, touch John, murmur to John.

He does none of these things.

Sherlock glances at his watch, then turns to look at the window. The rain shows no signs of easing. He sighs and crosses back to the case files, seats himself, glances one more time at John, then pulls another batch of files from the box.

Across the room, John Watson sleeps. And remembers.

OooOooO

Mycroft absolutely insists that she spend the night in the hospital. Anthea is just as adamant that she be allowed to return to her home.

"Sir, I'm fine. Well, not fine. A little shook up, and a few bruises. But well enough to go home."

He sighs and smiles grimly at her. She looks up at him from where she lies on the gurney in the ambulance. The first ambulance having been dispatched with the body that was pulled from Anthea's car. The paramedic busies himself with something behind them, then reaches over to take her pulse again. She holds her wrist up so he can easily reach it, but never takes her eyes off Mycroft's determined face.

"My dear, I have no doubt that you think you will be recovered enough to leave hospital after a doctor checks you over. But I wish you to stay. At least the one night. Please."

Her eyes widen at the quiet "Please" and she looks up at him as he sits next to her side. "Sir – you didn't have to come with. You could have met me there."

He shakes his head. "No. And stop arguing. Now that's an order."

And Mycroft Holmes smiles softly at her. She sighs and shuts her eyes. And knows someone, somewhere will have hell to pay. The thought fills her with immense satisfaction.

Mycroft considers her quiet form. And frowns. The ambulance rushes them to Bart's.

OooOooO

**Seventy-two Hours After Lucerne.**

Billings meets two of his acquaintances, for want of a better term, in the parking lot of a local grocery store. The rain has finally ceased, at least for a little while, and the lot is filling rapidly with shoppers hastening to restock their pantries. No one pays any attention to the three men as they stand around and talk idly, arms crossed over their chests. They could be anyone, husbands dutifully waiting for wives to come out with buggies full of the week's shopping.

Billings converses with them for a few minutes, then all three of them walk idly over to one of the parked cars. One of the men opens the trunk. "Be quick about it," he admonishes.

Billings glances in at the neatly stacked ordinance, whistles a long, low whistle. The first man slams the trunk. Mick looks up at the two men, then grins. "Barbed wire, really? Where in God's name –"

"It comes in handy," the first man says. He shrugs his shoulders, glances around the lot.

"You'll have the rest of it – "

"Yes. Yes. Of course. Don't worry about it. It's all taken care of." Billings glances at his watch, then looks up at the other two.

"I'll see you two tomorrow then. And for fuck's sakes, don't draw any unwanted attention to yourselves when you—"

"Tell us how to do our business, Mick," the second man says with a grin. He nods at the other two and walks away toward his vehicle, his hands in the pockets of his trousers.

The first man nods at Billings. "Later." And gets in the driver's seat of his car.

Billings whistles while he strides toward the rented SUV. Bloody fucking hell but this is better than anything he got up to in Kandahar. Wayy better. He grins.

OooOooO

Lord Bennett Crandall looks up from his book. And frowns.

He looks at Mycroft Holmes, who stares coldly back at him.

"I was under the impression that this 'safe house' as you so kindly put it, is more or less to be considered free from unwarranted intrusions – such as yours, Holmes."

He places a marker in his book and sets it carefully on the table to his side. Then folds his hands in his lap.

Mycroft steps aside as several of his agents move into the room.

Lord Crandall looks up at the three grim-faced men, then back at Mycroft.

"I take it my execution day has come at last?" he says dryly.

"Not your execution day, not yet, Bennett," Mycroft says coldly. He nods at his agents.

"Okay, take him."

"Now wait just a bloody minute," Crandall objects. He starts to struggle in their grasp.

Mycroft sighs. "Bennett, as I told you before, we can do this the easy way or the hard way." He glances at his men. Then turns back to Crandall.

"You know what, Bennett? Let's do it the hard way. I'm feeling particularly – vindictive – today."

Bennett’s eyes widen as the men move in around him. It is his last sight for a very long time.

OooOooO

Sherlock sleeps at the writing desk, his head cradled in his arms. He sleeps fitfully, for fifteen to twenty minutes at a time. Each time he finally nods off, he finds himself standing at the rim of the waterfall again. And each time, he jerks himself back awake. Finally, he gives up, runs one pale hand through his dark curls and goes over to check on John again.

The doctor appears calm. Sherlock can see his eyelids move. It appears that John is dutifully following Maggie Oakton's instructions. He hopes.

He wants to climb into bed next to the man he loves, but doesn't dare do so. He wants to touch John but doesn't dare that either. Finally, he shakes his head and glances at his watch.

Right on cue, there is a small tap on their door.

Sherlock opens it to find Lori Hansen, her hand raised to tap again.

She smiles shyly at him.

"Mr. Holmes, you haven't had a break all day. I've eaten and thought I'd come sit with Doctor Watson for a while, if you want."

Sherlock raises one eyebrow, then glances at John. He considers, then nods. "Well, you could watch him for a little while. I need to get out of the room, take a break." He glances at Lori.

She nods. "I'll be more than happy to sit with him, Mr. Holmes. For as long as you need me to." She indicates the book she has brought with her, as well as her small medical kit.

He sighs and steps aside so she can enter their room. "I won't be long," he murmurs.

"Mr. Holmes, please go eat something. Or just get outside and get some fresh air. Doctor Watson will be just fine. I'll call you immediately if anything happens."

She looks up at him. He looks down at the tiny nurse, then nods once.

"Thank you."

He looks at John Watson again, then turns and leaves. Lori pulls the door quietly shut behind her, then glances at John's sleeping form. She picks up the extra chair, sits it down next to the quiet doctor, sets her medical kit on the floor next to her and opens her book.

Outside, the rain starts up again.

OooOooO

"You're just not trying hard enough, Bennett," Mycroft's voice rings out in the room used for interrogations.

Lord Bennett Crandall's head lolls to the side. Both his arms are tied to the chair arms. Sweat pools along his forehead.

"Now let's go over this one more time, Bennett, shall we?"

Mycroft remains back in the shadows and watches as Crandall shakes his head slowly from side to side.

"I want to know who planted the bomb in my assistant's car. And I want to know how many more of your – compatriots – are out there. And I want all of this information now, Bennett. If you would be so kind."

Lord Crandall frowns. His eyes are closed. His tongue darts out to moisten his dry lips. He struggles a few times against the restraints, then gives it up as a lost cause.

"Should have happened a long time ago, you ass," he murmurs.

Mycroft nods at the young woman who sits next to him. She touches a button on the side of the small box next to her and a tape begins to run from the box down to the ground. At the same time, she watches a computer screen in front of her. She nods.

"All right Bennett, what should have happened a long time ago?"

"You, you bastard. You. All of you. The great Holmes family. Should have been taken down a long time back. Along with this sodding sorry excuse for a government."

Mycroft studies the man in front of him. And frowns.

"Bennett, I asked who planted the bomb in my assistant's car. And I asked for the names of your compatriots."

He notes the man's pale countenance, then steps up behind Lord Crandall.

"Bennett, you will find that I have absolutely no patience with anyone who wishes to harm this government – or my family. Or those I hold dear. So I will ask this one more time, Lord Crandall. Give. Me. Names."

Lord Crandall frowns, new lines appear across his forehead. He frankly pours sweat now. It drips down his face into his collar. His fists clench, then open, clench again.

He shakes his head.

"Now, Bennett."

Mycroft nods at one of his men, who moves in with a hypo.

"Reggie – you got to Reggie already." Lord Crandall's voice comes out in harsh gasps.

Mycroft holds up one hand to his man. Shakes his head at him. The agent lowers the hypo and goes back to the shadows.

"And – Jackson. Miles. He had one of his people plant the bomb in her car. Easy to do. He does work there after all."

Mycroft raises an eyebrow at the name. Then looks bloody murder at the man in front of him. He's had Miles Jackson over for drinks on several occasions. Who would have thought –

"All the names, Bennett."

Lord Crandall struggles, his breath comes in deep gasps now. He winces and tries to open his eyes but is not successful.

"Green, Parkson, Brown."

Mycroft keeps his voice calm, but his eyes widen. "Thea Brown?"

Crandall just nods. "Yes. Thea Brown. She insisted … she – she insisted." His head lolls to the side again. He sighs.

"All of them, Bennett," Mycroft snaps.

"Adair. Ronald Adair." Crandall sighs again and his head falls forward. He moans.

Mycroft's eyes widen and he turns to regard the young woman in front of the notebook pc.

"My dear, make sure you get a recording of this entire session to me as quickly as possible. I'll be at the hospital."

She nods, slips in a memory stick to make the recording. Then pushes another button.

In front of her, Lord Bennett Crandall loses consciousness for the third and last time.

Mycroft nods at one of his agents. His men move forward.

OooOooO

Sherlock walks outside the mansion to stand and stare at the sky. The rain has started up again. He stands there and wishes for a cigarette, then sighs and reaches in his pocket for another sodding nicotine patch. He slaps it on his forearm and thinks, not for the first time, that John's influence on him can, at times, be just a tad maddening.

At the thought of John, he goes back into the mansion, foregoes eating, and makes his way back to their room.

He sends Lori on her way, stands over John Watson for a while, then sits at the desk and reaches for the rest of the cold case files.

The evening hours slip away. John Watson sleeps. Sherlock wishes he could.

OooOooO

_He wakes in his hospital room in St. Anne's. He turns his head to look at the man he loves. "Not going anywhere," he whispers._

_OooOooO_

_He stares at Maggie Oakton, uncertain he heard her correctly. Did she just say that one of Mycroft's men injected him with Frank's drug? Did she?_

In his sleep, John moans. Sherlock raises his head to look at him.

_OooOooO_

_He sits up on the side of his hospital bed in St. Anne's. He watches Sherlock as the younger man holds up one shining dog tag toward him. He ducks his head. Sherlock places the tag around his neck. He takes the second tag and places it around Sherlock's._

" _For richer, for poorer. In sickness and in health._

_Until Death do us Part."_

_OooOooO_

_He walks with Jacob Lynn outside in the freezing air._

_"Given the size – and cost - of this place, it's probably ruddy unicorns," he mutters._

_Jake smiles._

_OooOooO_

Mycroft sits by her bedside. They talk for a while and he tells her of the funeral arrangements for Tricia Henderson. She nods sadly.

Before he goes, he says, "Oh, yes," and holds out a rectangular box. She grins and takes the box. She flips it open and removes the brand new Blackberry. It's a deep purple in color.

She smiles up at him. "Thank you, sir."

He sighs. " I know you were losing your mind. And it's absolutely no use my telling you to stay quiet. Just promise me one thing."

She looks from the new phone up to him. He winces at the bruises on her upper arms and hands. And the one really spectacular one on the side of her temple.

"Promise me you'll get a good nights' sleep before you start in again," he whispers.

She sighs dramatically, then nods. "All right, Sir. If you insist."

"I do insist," he stands and bends over her, plants a firm kiss against her hair line. "Now get some sleep, my dear."

He picks up his umbrella and overcoat. At her door, he turns to fix her with a steel glance.

"Things have been – taken care of," he says quietly.

She regards him quietly.  Then nods once.

"Rest," he says firmly. He leaves her alone in her hospital room.

She looks from the door, back down to the Blackberry in her hand.

OooOooO

The four agents stand in the garage, in front of the newest acquisition, delivered this morning by one very large van.

"Holy Hell," Agent Enders says. His eyes widen.

"You got that right," Agent Williams says appreciatively. He whistles. Bed is going to have to wait for a few minutes.

"Jesus Fucking Christ," Agent Roaman states. It's time for him to turn in, but oh my fucking God.

"Fantastic," Agent Jake Lynn murmurs. He runs his hand over the shining lines, then stands back to get the full picture. He glances at the others.

"What are we supposed to do with this again?" he says.

Enders sighs. "You missed the Lady Anthea's phone call, I take it."

Lynn sighs. And frowns. He was making the rounds outside when she called. But bloody hell, he wanted to be the one who spoke with her.

He frowns again. "How did she sound?"

Enders shakes his head. "Like nothing bloody well happened, that's how. The woman's frightening sometimes." He looks at the object in front of them again, then glances at Jake Lynn.

Jake stares at him. Every single one of them knows about the attempt on her life. And every single one of them can just about picture the scenario that followed immediately after Mr. Holmes discovered she was safe.

He shakes his head.

"Never mind, Jake. The next time she calls, I'll make sure you're the one who speaks with her."

None of them joke the agent about his feelings. But all of them know how utterly useless it is to even hope.

Jake nods. And looks at the acquisition one more time.

He looks at Enders. "So tell me, what do we do with this again?"

Enders grins. "We wrap it back up and guard the sodding thing with our lives. It's for Watson."

Jake whistles. "You're kidding!"

The four of them stand there in appreciative silence.

OooOooO

Sherlock checks his watch, seventeen bloody hours – nearly. He looks at John. Finally, he goes to shower and change.

John sleeps on. And begins to frown in his sleep.

His fists clench at his side.

No one notices.

OooOooO

**Eighty-Two Hours After Lucerne.**

Maggie Oakton comes to their room and taps quietly. She has been in constant touch with Sherlock via text throughout the night. But there has been no change in the doctor.

Sherlock stands with her over John's quiet form. He glances at the psychologist, then back to John's quiet face.

"Doctor Oakton?"

Maggie just shakes her head. "I don't know. We really have no way of knowing when to wake him. That's why I planted the suggestion that he would wake himself."

Sherlock frowns and bites his lip. He notes the brightening sky outside their window. It is nearly sunrise.

"Mr. Holmes?" He looks behind him at Jake Lynn. The agent stands in the half-open door.

"I was just wondering if Doctor Watson was feeling any better and if you thought he will want to go for his usual morning walk after breakfast?

Sherlock shakes his head. He glances at Oakton, uncertain of how much Mycroft's men know about John's actual _– condition._

Maggie frowns. She looks down at John's sleeping face. Then glances back up at Sherlock. And shakes her head.

"Agent Lynn, Doctor Watson is not feeling any better. I doubt very much if he'll want that walk later."

Jake nods once, then looks straight into Sherlock's eyes. And makes a decision.

"Sir? I'm not exactly certain of the nature of Doctor Watson's illness but, well, if you or Doctor Oakton want to go get something to eat, I'll be happy to stay here with him while you're gone."

Jake looks from Maggie to Sherlock, then over at John's tired face. He glances back at Sherlock.

"I really don't mind at all. If there's anything I can do – well, I want to help."

Sherlock looks from Jake's face to the window. The sun is nearly up. In a few minutes, their room will be bathed in brilliant sunlight. Jake follows his glance to the window, nods.

"I'll get it, Sir." He crosses to their window, moves to pull the curtains.

"Agent Lynn?"

Jake turns at the sound of Sherlock's voice.

And it is this tiny movement that saves his life.

"Sir?"

In the quiet room, the shot sounds more like a ricochet then an actual gunshot. The window glass shatters, and myriad rays crack, spread and run outward from the hole that suddenly appears in the middle of the glass.

Jake's eyes widen and he jerks once, as he looks, wide-eyed,  at the sudden spray of crimson that splatters the cold case files Sherlock had been working on a few minutes earlier. He glances down at his shirt and frowns.

Sherlock's eyes narrow and he lunges forward. "Lynn!"

The second shot catches Jake across the right temple.

OooOooO

THERE BUT FOR THE GRACE OF JOHN WATSON, CH. 21

** DEBRIEFING, ON FF DOT NET.  SOON TO BE POSTED ON AO3.

ALSO, THE BOYS OF BAKER STREET, CH. 4


	19. Chapter 19

**These characters, in their current incarnation, belong to the BBC, and not to me, and in their original incarnation, to the estate of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.**

**THE BOYS OF BAKER STREET**

**CH 19**

OooOooO

**NOTE: This ongoing work is a Trilogy.  This is Book Two.   This work occasionally references events that occurred in Book One:  THERE BUT FOR THE GRACE OF JOHN WATSON. If you have not read that work, you might not "get" some of the references in this story. You might want to stop right here and go read GRACE first, then come back to BOYS.  Otherwise, your reading experience will not have the intensity that I labored so hard to create for you.**

**OooOooO**

**WARNINGS: Language; Violence; Kidnapping; attempted Murder; and enough BAMF behavior to circle the globe – twice.**

**Oh, Yes: One highly ticked off future Mum-in-Law…**

OooOooO

Jake Lynn jerks once, clutches at the chair in front of the writing table, then slowly falls down its length, to lie on his side, nearly huddled in a ball. His chest burns and he does not realise that he has just escaped a bullet in the heart by mere inches – and one in the brain by millimeters. All he knows is he's having difficulty breathing and his entire right side appears to have erupted into flame. He stares ahead of him, wild-eyed, and tries to recall the training he underwent intended to help steady his heart-rate, control his breathing and calm his chaotic thoughts.

It doesn't work.

"Sherlock, for fucks' sake, get down and stay down!"

Sherlock instinctively obeys that voice, drops to his full length on the floor, long fingers clenched, then turns his head to stare, incredulous, behind him. His curls brush along the soft carpet. His eyes widen.

"John!"

"Yup. Quiet, Sherlock. And Maggie, lie still!"

Jake groans where he has fallen to the floor, huddled on his left side. His arm is outstretched and his fingers clench in the carpet, as if he tries to find a way to anchor himself to the floor. His life's blood pumps slowly but steadily from the bullet wound in his right shoulder. Blood begins to well up and drip down his face from his temple where the bullet grazed it, burning and tearing his scalp. His eyes remain open. He stares beyond Sherlock – even as he begins to shake uncontrollably - and his eyes widen.

"Doctor – _Watson_?" he gasps.

"Jake, quiet now, there's a lad."

Maggie Oakton groans, the air nearly knocked out of her after one determined and strong pair of hands grab her shoulders and yank her down beside the bed. She gasps for air, and her heart thuds in her chest, her hands scrabble in the thick pile. Everything is happening too fast and she can't even turn her head due to the – near – dead weight of one very conscious exArmy doctor who currently lies on top of her.

John's hand, his firm, steady hand, is on the nape of her neck.

"I know you're scared, Maggie; just - don't move till I tell you to."

John's breath is warm on her neck. All she can do is try to nod, a near impossible feat when someone is pushing down on the back of your head and your cheek is mashed into the floor.

_How did she get down on the floor so fast? And Jesus Christ, what the hell just happened?_

"Sniper," John speaks softly into her hair. "Okay, Maggie, I want you to crawl out of the room, into the hallway. Don't get up until you're well away from the window."

She struggles to rise.

"I said fucking crawl!"

She nods, tries to gather her thoughts, then simply obeys. She begins to wiggle, then pull herself forward by elbows, knees toward the door that Jake has left open. This is madness. Sheer madness. Did someone – was Jake Lynn just shot for pity's sake?

Maggie gasps and she's aware that tears run down her face. Nevertheless, she abandons her dignity and continues to pull herself out into the hallway. She crawls as quickly as possible and keeps as low as possible . She uses muscles she hasn't used in ages and is aware that someone – is it her? – whimpers softly the whole time she moves.

John's quiet, determined voice follows her.

"Maggie, you'll be fine. Just get out into the hallway, then get the hell out of here. Stay away from the windows. Get to the others, find Enders, Williams, Roaman. Tell them we've got a sniper and a man down. Then find Dennison and Hansen. I'm going to need a shot. And keep everyone the fuck away from the windows! That means stay away from the kitchen and library and front hallway, in particular. No one is to come back into this room. We'll get Jake out. Get Galen and Lori to grab some medical supplies. And don't forget that shot. Now MOVE, Maggie!"

John's voice is adamant and she doesn't even think about disobeying his firm commands.

Finally, she is in the hallway, still on her stomach. She reaches one shaking hand toward the wall, then uses it as leverage to pull herself up until she can stand and limp down the hall, her ankle temporarily protesting its treatment from when she fell. As she is able to straighten, she walks quickly, finally is able to abandon the temporary limp and run as soon as she hits the next hallway over.

_Enders, Williams, Roaman. Tell them - Sniper. She's to find Galen…then Lori? Where is everyone? Stay away from the windows. Prepare a hypo. Don't go in the kitchen or library. Bloody hell…this can't be happening. Lynn is shot. Sniper. He's alive. John is awake. He's awake…Enders, Williams, Roaman. Find Galen – Lori … medical kits … He's awake ..._

She repeats John Watson's barked commands to herself, over and over, as she runs. There is a roaring sound in her head that she tries to ignore as she rushes to obey John.

Sherlock twists his head forward to look at Jake. The agent's eyes have closed and his breath comes in gasps. Crimson sprays decorate the carpet, the front of Jake's shirt, his face, temple, hands, and Sherlock's hands where he has splayed them in the carpet, against a deepening pool of the warm, red liquid. Jakes' body shakes slightly.

"John, he's going into shock –"

"Sherlock, I'm coming up beside you. We have to drag him backwards with us – and get the hell out of this room."

The next second a warm body is nearly parallel to him and Sherlock turns his head to the far right and back a bit to encounter John's dark blue gaze.

John grins at him, a quick flash, and then it's gone, and in its stead is just a steady gaze and his open familiar face, with myriad new frown lines that weren't there before. His shaggy hair falls into his eyes and he brushes it aside with one impatient hand.

He addresses the fallen agent but does not take his eyes off Sherlock.

"Still with us, Jake?"

The agent moans softly but does not open his eyes.

"Good man. I need you to hold on. Okay, Sherlock, you're closest. Grab his arm and pull him to us, try to keep him on his side. When he's closer, switch arms and I'll grab his left."

Sherlock, his eyes wide, stares at John Watson, but does not speak. He turns his head, then reaches out one long arm, and grabs Lynn by his wrist, gone slippery now with blood, and literally yanks the fallen agent toward them.

Lynn's body turns, snags momentarily as his clothing catches on the carpet pile, then moves slowly until he's several feet away from the shattered window. He groans aloud at the pain but does nothing to hinder the detective from moving him forward. Sherlock gives another yank, then John's steady hand reaches out to also grab Lynn's wrist. His fingers encircle the fallen agent's wrist, right on top of Sherlock's hand, and together they begin to pull the wounded man toward them, and along with them, as they wiggle backwards along the carpet toward the open door.

Jake groans uncontrollably. His body shakes as his blood pressure drops. He no longer acknowledges John's voice.

"Sorry, Mate, but we're nearly there! Okay, Sherlock, pull!"

And then they're at the door. Sherlock rises to a small crouch, as does John, and together they get the now unconscious agent out of the room.

"Sherlock, hang on a sec." John crouches low and goes back into their bedroom.

"John!"

But before he can protest further, John is back, his arms full of jeans and his boots, which had been abandoned by the side of their bed.

John grins at Sherlock. "Can't run around the whole place in just my pants now, can I?"

He nods at the younger man. "Call Enders. We need help with Jake. And your brother. We need backup and we need it now. Not sure if Lestrade can help with this one."

He busies himself making Jake more comfortable.

Despite their immediate danger and the whole feeling of _What the Bloody Fuck Just Happened,_ Sherlock's heart sings as he thumbs his mobile phone and prepares to follow John Watson's instructions.

" _He's awake. And he's_ John."

OooOooO

Agent Enders finishes his inside rounds and considers going for a quick cup of coffee before going outside to walk the perimeter in the cool morning air. His mobile rings. He fishes it out of his pocket and glances at the screen, then grins.

"Anthony? You okay? I'm not really supposed to take calls when —"

"Robs, I know, but this can't wait. Not a single minute. Just listen for a sec. Robs? YES. Yes. I had to tell you, mate, before another minute went by."

Enders' eyes widen and he stares at nothing in particular as he listens to Anthony's warm voice in his ear. He clears his throat and is aware that his hand shakes, just a little.

"Anthony – say that again."

"I said 'Yes,' Robs. 'Yes' to it all. Shoulda told you the other night, when we were together but – I guess I was just a little nervous."

Rob Enders grins. He holds the mobile as close to his ear as possible. "Yeah, me too. I was – aw hell, I was so nervous I nearly didn't ask you."

He glances around the hallway, then leans slightly against the wall and mashes the mobile next to his ear. He shuts his eyes the better to hear the man he loves.

"So – you're over that _nervous_ thing, then?" His heart pounds in his chest as he listens for the reply.

"Yeah. Robs, about that, I'm sorry. I should have said 'Yes' immediately – and jumped your bones. But I, well –"

Rob Enders grins again. In fact, he can't _stop_ grinning, from ear to ear. "Actually, you did jump my bones, but still –"

"Yeah, I know."

Anthony is quiet for a moment and Rob Enders can hear his love take a deep breath. He can picture the quiet face, the hazel eyes, the dark blonde hair, and wishes he had another night off coming soon. As it is, he's not sure how he'll get through the next four days before –

"Listen, Robs. I know you gotta go and I broke our agreement not to call you at work. But – I love you, Robs. I know you know that but had to tell you. I was going to wait until later this week, but sod it – 'Yes,' Robs. As soon as we can."

Rob Enders just nods. "Well, all right then. Hey, listen, I know about the nerves thing. But, hell, if Holmes and Watson can do it, get married, then we can too, you know? It won't be as easy as I made it sound, but Anthony –"

Anthony laughs, his voice warm and intimate in Rob Enders' ear. "Like it's been so easy up to now, mate, right? Okay, then. You gotta go. I'll talk to you tonight when you're off duty."

Enders sighs and straightens. Another ten hours before he hears his love's voice again. "Yeah, Anthony. Tonight then. And Anthony?"

"Yeah, Robs?"

"Nothing. Just – I mean, thanks. Thanks for being there, man. Thanks for saying Yes. And thanks for putting up with me. Aw, hell, you know what I'm trying to say."

Anthony laughs. It's a small gentle laugh and goes straight through Rob Enders' heart.

"Yeah, I know what you're trying to say. Maybe we can work on your communication skills in a few days, as well as other things."

"You got it. Okay. Now I really have to go. Tonight, then. I'll call you."

"Tonight, Robs. I – I love you."

"Yup. Me too, mate."

The two men hang up and Rob Enders sighs, then drops his mobile in his pocket. He turns – to see Agent Roaman who stands there, on his way to bed, a cup of hot tea in his hand.

Roaman grins. "Well, one thing's for sure – _Robs_. You're going to be insufferable to get along with for the next few days."

Enders grins. "He said 'Yes.' "

Roaman comes up to him and nods. "I grasped that from the idiot grin on your face. Hey, man. Congratulations and all that." He holds out his hand and Rob Enders takes it in his.

"Thanks. And now I'd better get back to -"

Both men turn at the sound of rushed footsteps. Maggie Oakton hurries up to them, her face pale, her hair as wild as her eyes.

OooOooO

Mick Billings squats but does not touch the M89, but tilts his head to stare through the scope. He can clearly see the bedroom window. He frowns.

He rises up and looks over at the other two men who both watch him expectantly. Well, Glenn is watching him. Anders is fidgeting with the clip for his gun, weighing it in his hand, flipping it end over end. Billings stares at the man; more importantly, he stares at his eyes when he raises his head to look at Billings.

"Anders are you – for fucks' sake, man. Are you fucking high?"

Anders drops the clip in his side pocket, then folds his arms over his chest and attempts to stare down Mick Billings.

"And what's it to you, you arse? You try getting shot in the bleedin' stomach, go through four sets of bloody operations, get invalided home, get hooked on pain killers and then tell me how you live without 'em, k?"

Glenn sees Billings face turn a darker shade and speaks up. "He's fine. I've worked with Anders before. He's fine. Don't worry. It's just that he needs –"

"I don't give a flying fuck what he needs!" Billings snaps. "Nothing and no one is going to screw this one up!" He walks up to Anders and reaches out to put a hand on the man's shoulder.

Anders shrugs him off and stares back at him. "I told you, Billings, I'm fine! Better than fine, in fact! It's only when the stuff wears off for a few that I can't – I'm bloody fine!"

He turns, tugs his gun out of his waistband as he walks and rams the new clip in. He checks the action, then pointedly looks at Billings while he thumbs the safety off, then on, then off, then back on again. He replaces the gun in his waistband– a Sig – (Billings thinks _, "It seems to be everyone's weapon of choice today"_ ) and then stands there, both arms held to his side.

Glenn stares at them both. " _For fucks sake, this isn't some sort of Wild West shootout."_

A moments' silence. Glenn clears his throat and steps forward. "Look, Mick –"

"Oh don't 'look Mick' me!" Billings snaps. "If he hadn't made that shot, I'd send him packing right now."

Glenn nods. "Yes, and let's remember he did make the shot!" He glances at the rifle on its bipod, grins suddenly, then looks back at the other two men. "Good shot, too."

Billings turns on him. "We don't even know if Holmes is dead!" he shouts.

"No. And we won't know – not until they try to get him out. The point is, he made the shot. Just like you asked."

Glenn walks up to Anders, puts a hand on his shoulder and gives it a shake. Anders looks at him and sighs. He doesn't remove the hand but he does lower his head again to stare at his shoes.

He mutters, more to himself than to the others, "Told you I'd make it." He raises his head and fixes Mick with a steady look. "Look. You told me to go for the one with the dark curls and that's what I did. He went down. I saw him go down."

He looks from Billings to Glenn for approval. "It was a good shot. If he hadn't bleeding moved – anyway, the second one was the kill. Got him smack on in the right temple."

He taps the right side of his skull to emphasize the point and grins again, his pupils nearly blown.

Mick's eyes narrow at that grin. He glances at the two men, looks around at the boxes of ammo and other items piled neatly on the ground, stacked under the trees, and sighs. He nods once. And consciously adjusts his body language. He is stuck now – with both of them. Have to make the best of it.

"Okay, then." He goes to the nearest box and sits down, waits for the other two to follow suit. Glenn sits, as well. Anders just crosses his arms and stares.

"Okay. We have to keep them from leaving. Whenever we get a shot, we take it – I don't care who it is. But Holmes – most especially we have to get Holmes. And that doctor, if we can –"

"Watson," Glenn says calmly. "Thought he was dead, until you told us otherwise. Saw it in the papers."

"I don't care what you saw in the blooming papers! Watson's alive. He's in that bloody house and we are bloody well going to take him out, but most particularly Holmes." He pauses and looks up at Anders. "If Anders hasn't done that already."

Anders nods. "All right, then." He crosses over, picks up one of the rifles, checks the action, then pockets a few other items. "I'm going to go get into position. The back gate is open – at least for now – and you never know, right?" He grins again and strides away, under the trees.

Billings narrows his eyes and watches him go. There is a moment's silence. Then he swivels his head to stare at Glenn. "You vouch for him?" he says curtly.

Glenn nods. "I told you before. I've seen him with a snootful – and seen him without. _With_ is much better. You saw what he just did."

Both men stare at each other and then Billings nods once and jerks his head toward the bipod. Glenn stands up and goes back over to crouch down and look through the scope again. He tosses out his next statement without turning around to see what effect it has on Billings.

"What else are we to do? It's too good an opportunity just to keep them there. Doesn't make a lot of sense to me." Glenn barely touches the scope once, makes a minor adjustment, then sits back on his heels, his hands clasped loosely in front of him. He looks over at Billings, then stands up again, more to stretch than anything and stares at the other man. "Remind me again why we won't have a ton of cops down on us and soon?"

Billings takes a rag out of his pocket, rubs it down the length of the rifle, examines the result, then shoves the cloth back in his back pocket.

"I bloody well told you. There are two toff estates along this road. Two.  And the ones who own the other aren't even in the country. Unless we get too loud, no ones' going to know. Until Holmes and company call them in."

"Which they can do – and probably will do – at any minute."

Billings shakes his head and stares through the trees. "Don't think so, mate. Boss has that covered." He walks over to one of the boxes of ammo and flips the lid open.

Glenn stands and stares at what he can see of the lawns and house and frowns, considering.

Behind him, he can hear Mick Billings busy himself with one of the weapons. "That's it for now. _The road is blocked – just in case any errant citizens stray this way_. And if they do, then by God, we've got hostages, right? And we have other orders for later. Let's just wait –" he stares through the trees at the rolling lawns and at the upper story and roof of the huge mansion that he can just make out. "Sun'll be higher soon. We'll see then."

Mick Billings stands and walks a little way away to get a better view. He speaks to Glenn without turning his head to see him. "Set up for their left side, your right. That's where they keep the bloody cars. No need to focus on that bedroom window. No one's going back in there now."

He walks a few more feet. "I'll set up for the front of the sodding place. Sooner or later, someone's bound to cross in front of those fancy windows."

Billings talks now, more to himself than to Glenn.

"If Anders did fucking shoot Holmes and if he's not dead – then someone'll be coming out soon, one way or the other, to get him to the bloody hospital. Or –" he pauses in his thoughts and checks the scope on his rifle. "Or – someone'll be coming IN to get him. Either way, we got them."

He nods once, satisfied that he's taken every precaution so far. Then he looks through the dark trees. And waits for the sun to rise just a bit more.

Off to his left, he hears a shot. And frowns. Glenn just looks over at him and shrugs. "He's covering the left side, that garden gate. Someone must have come out."

Billings nods.

OooOooO

Lori places a few scraps on a small plate and opens the door into the garden. She walks a few feet, then bends over and sets the plate on the ground next to a stack of flower pots, then just remains there, in a crouch, and waits. A tentative paw snakes out from behind one of the pots, followed by a small inquisitive face. The kitten, tiny, orange, peaks from behind the pot. Lori croons gently to it.

"Come on, sweetie, come on. You know you're hungry." She clicks her tongue. The kitten hesitantly takes a few steps, then stops. Lori does not move. The small cat creeps toward the plate of food, stops again, then finally reaches out one hesitant paw toward the food. It snags a scrap, pulls it toward it and starts to nibble.

"That's it. Hey, where's your Mum, your brothers and sisters, hmm? You all alone out here?" She reaches out one hand and gently touches one tiny shell of an ear with a fingertip. The kitten flinches, then allows the small touch and goes back to eating.

"Okay. I'll leave you to it then."

Lori straightens up, careful not to alarm the tiny creature, then brushes her fingers along her scrubs. She sighs and looks around. The garden will be gorgeous in the spring, once it's received the attention it so deserves. She wonders who tends it and when they will return to do so. She follows the long line of stepping stones with her eyes to the expanse of lawn she can see through the wide open garden door. She turns to go back inside.

An insect zips by her; she hears the sudden whining buzz. Something impacts on the walk behind her and a tiny spray of brick dust shoots into the air.

Lori has not grown up in a military family without learning what a shot sounds like. Her eyes widen as she recognises the sound for what it was and she rushes into the kitchen, slams the door behind her and runs toward the double doors. Her air leaves her with a sudden whoof when they open and nearly slam into her midsection.

Agent Enders comes to an abrupt stop; his eyes stare at the tiny nurse as she skids into him.

"Come on!" he grabs her by the wrist and literally yanks her through the double doors into the outer hallway, away from the tall kitchen windows.

OooOooO

"Ronald Adair," Mycroft says aloud. He is the only one in his office so no one responds. In a moment, he will call the hospital to check on Anthea, who is chomping at the bit to get out of there and back to work. He wants her to remain but knows he will have to bow to her wishes. The woman is relentless. However, he refuses to even consider letting her return to work for at least another day or two. He knows this, too, will be a battle.

He listens to the recording of Lord Crandall's interrogation for the second time, then shuts it off mid-sentence. He leans back and taps his chin with one manicured fingernail.

It – almost – makes sense to him now. For the past few weeks, Mycroft has struggled with the unreality of two sets of attacks coming at them from two separate forces. But now, with Bennett Crandall's confession, well, Ronald Adair seems to be the common denominator.

As noted before, neither of the Holmes brothers believe in coincidence.

Ronald Adair, the new Chairman of the Board of Moriarty's network, the new Chairman who has appeared to have stepped into the footsteps of the former Chairman, now defunct.

Which means, of course, that all the attacks, everything that has happened, even the attack on John Watson in St. Anne's, can _possibly_ be traced back to and shown to be the work of - one James Moriarty, deceased consulting criminal.

All of it, even the recruiting of members of the House of Lords, disgruntled gentry unhappy with the way the country is being run. They thought they had engineered the entire thing, but the plans were put into place by one slick master criminal, the ideas of anarchy planted here and there in private conversations, emails, texts, over coffee and tea and cakes, in quiet cafes, in five-star restaurants, at family gatherings, all of it, put into play by Moriarty – acting through his second-in-command: Ronald Adair.

Yes, the pieces begin to fit, beginning with the horrid kidnapping and personal attack on John Watson, personally overseen by Moriarty. Then the sickening anti-gay slur campaign, including the near destruction of Sherlock's flat, all the result of the deliberate infiltration of members of the British government itself, including select members of the House of Lords. Mycroft frowns and considers this part of the plan to be apparently overseen by Ronald Adair, who seems to prefer to work from the shadows.

"Never put all your eggs into one basket," a worthy admonition his much-loved nurse used to tell him. And she was right. It seems logical to Mycroft that letting any single individual know all the names of all the members of this terror cabal, for want of a better word, is bad business.

Reggie refused to name names before he – well. This tells Mycroft that Reggie was either a very new member of the cabal – or not entirely trusted by the others. Crandall did give him names. A few. Mycroft now wonders how many other names there are that he doesn't know – yet.

Then he sighs. There is a limit to what even he is capable of. A limit to what he can order his people to do in the name of justice, without eventually having to resort to the British court system.

Reggie was discovered dead in the Diogenes – deceased of an apparent heart attack.

As for Lord Bennett Crandall, the Lord has disappeared from public view. Stories of his illness are even now being circulated. Eventually, in a few days, whispers that his illness is terminal will make their rounds amongst the House of Lords and the British public. And a week or two from now, Crandall's' body will be discovered, an apparent suicide.

But those members of his group will be able to put two and two together – and hopefully come to the expedient decision to cease and desist all future activities. At least for now. This will give Mycroft time to quietly round them up, one by one.

He looks at the list of names in front of him. He might not be able to do much about those, not yet. With one notable exception - Miles Jackson. The individual who Crandall assured him planted the bomb in Anthea's car.

Mycroft's eyes narrow. He glances at a small part of the report in front of him. It is absolutely necessary that he verify Crandall's' claim. At this point, he cannot take the man's word for anything, even though his statements were made under the influence of a drug that generally guarantees truthfulness. Still, he cannot take a chance with someone's life without at least secondary corroboration.

Mycroft places a quick call to two of his agents. Miles Jackson is to be put through the process as quickly as possible. And Mycroft himself will be there for this one, as well. He lets his thoughts linger on the few minutes of horror he experienced when he thought that small body on the gurney was Anthea's.

Well, the woman who was killed was one of his employees – originally. He was the one who first hired Patricia Kohler and he was the one who recommended her for the job as assistant to the undersecretary, a job that she was thrilled to be offered, a job that got her out from under some rather tedious administrative tasks and allowed her the opportunity to further her career, despite Mycroft's personal misgivings about her new "boss."

Still, she was Mycroft's employee first, and you are supposed to do something about it when your people are attacked. Which brings his thoughts full circle, back to the snake who planted the bomb in Anthea's car – the bomb that killed Patricia and was meant to kill Anthea – Mycroft's eyes narrow and his breathing becomes even more measured and calm.

Apparently Miles Jackson is scheduled for a long, overdue vacation. Jackson plans on remedying this, in just a few days, with a well-planned and considered vacation that calls for him to change planes several times and, eventually, join a rafting expedition in South America.

" _Excellent,"_ thinks Mycroft.

First, Jackson will be interrogated. Mycroft will have his answers, one way or the other. Next, Jackson's memory will be wiped. He will consider the incident to be one bad dream. After that – it is not unusual for people to simply disappear while in the rather – untamed – environment found along the Amazon river, correct?

Mycroft frowns as he considers the reports in front of him. His first desire was to break into Miles Jackson's home and throttle the bastard with his own bare hands. He still itches to take a more – personal – interest in Jackson's death.

But after Reggie, and taking into consideration Lord Crandall's impending illness, Mycroft comes to the reluctant conclusion that Jackson's disappearance while on vacation is the best way to deal with the situation.

He continues to tap his fingertip against his chin. Then he sighs and glances at the space on his desk where his cuppa should be by now.

He misses his hot tea being brought to him on schedule, but Deborah is doing an otherwise admirable job while Anthea is in hospital. And that makes sense. After all, she has been Anthea's assistant for nearly a year now. She has learned from the best.

With that thought, she comes into the room and brings one hot cup of Earl Grey with her. She places it on the corner of his desk, smiles, then hands him a small cream-colored envelope addressed to him in a spidery hand. It bears the seal of the Korean delegate.

"Thank you, Deborah," he says quietly. She smiles again and goes back out.

He glances at the seal, then breaks it, opens and reads the note, written in a thin hand, using excellent English. He slips the note back into its envelope, places it on the desk in front of him and picks up his tea. The gentleman in question appears to be genuinely concerned about the condition of Mycroft's "colleague" and hopes that when conditions improve, Mr. Holmes will consider dining with him. In private, of course.

Mycroft reluctantly pushes the delegate to the back of his mind. Some things are just not meant to be. Another worthy bit of advice from his old nurse. At times, he sincerely misses that most excellent woman.

He sets down his cup and picks up his mobile to call Anthea, but it rings before he can do so.

He glances at the screen. "Mummy," Mycroft says. He sighs and thumbs the button.

OooOooO

Anthea is downright fidgety. She awoke to the reality of how your muscles just plain ache when you have – nearly – been blown to hell and back. She can't think of a single part of her that doesn't hurt, including her heart when she thinks of Tricia's horrid death. Mercifully, the woman never knew what hit her. " _Doesn't make it any better though"_ Anthea thinks.

She swallows the painkillers they give her and tries to lie back and nap. And makes a poor job of it.

Eventually she sits up and glances at the time on the screen of her new phone. Since she has agreed to stay one more day and night in the hospital, she decides to stop by the ICU and pay her respects to Agent McReedy, who is on life support and not expected to last much longer.

She dresses slowly, wincing as she pulls her clothing on, then stops by the nurse's station to let them know where she will be.

As she takes the elevator to the next floor, Anthea thinks about agent James McReedy – and about the day he was shot guarding John Watson at the clinic in London.* Agent Peters, a good man who she slightly knew, was killed that day, shot in the head by Sebastian Moran, Moriarty's sniper. McReedy did not fare much better. He is alive – barely – if you can call it living. She has met his sister twice during visiting hours and each time did not really know what to say to the young woman.

McReedy is just days away from being declared brain dead and removed from life support and she feels badly for his sister. Anthea knows her brother is all the close family she has left.

And there's not a blessed thing anyone can do about it.

As she exits the elevator and makes her way to the ICU, Anthea wonders if her job is hardening her to the realities of life. Is she a different person than she was a few years ago when he recruited her? Different? Hell, yes. Harder? More cynical? More apt to dismiss life and death situations as being par for the course when you work with Mycroft Holmes?

Anthea has no answer to that. And she feels that this morning, particularly, she should not examine those questions too closely. She's slightly afraid of the answer she'll get.

She glances at his room as she walks in – and winces. McReedy's young sister stands by his bed. Anthea decides not to intrude but at that moment, the young woman looks up and sees her standing there. For just a second, Anthea is startled by the intense anger – even, hatred - she sees on the pretty face. Then it's gone – and she thinks she must have imagined it.

Anthea turns to make her slow way back to her room, when she hears the quick footsteps come up behind her. She involuntarily flinches – that is how Tricia's footsteps sounded. She turns to meet the concerned gaze of McReedy's young sister.

"I – I thought it was you. Please come see him. Don't leave on my account."

Cynthia McReedy, all of 21 years old, swallows and hesitantly touches Anthea on the wrist.

"I'm stepping out to make a phone call and I'll only be a minute or two. Please go ahead and visit with him. Talk to him. He might even know you're there."

Anthea looks into the younger woman's eyes, so full of pain, and nods.

OooOooO

"Mummy, if you don't mind, I really need to return this call –" Mycroft drains his tea in one gulp, never mind it's nearly scalding, and wishes for something stronger.

"Son, I don't mind but just wanted to tell you that I'll be home shortly and have decided to, oh, there's the man with the renovation crew now. I'll talk to you shortly, Mycroft." And she hangs up.

"Wait! Mummy? Mummy? Damn it!" Mycroft tosses the mobile down, then puts his head in his hands. Anthea's assistant pokes her head in.

"Did you need me, Sir?'

"Yes, please call my mother back – now – and if you don't get her, just keep trying until you do reach her. I need to know exactly where she is."

She regards him for a second, then comes into the room. She walks up and taps one of the sheets of paper that sits in front of him.

"Sir? I sent you an email earlier, as well as printing this out for you. It's your Mum's itinerary." She picks up the errant sheet and hands it personally to Mycroft, who curses silently and take it. He reads quickly, then looks at her, aghast.

"According to this, my Mother entered the country a few hours ago and might very well be nearing the mansion at this moment. Oh, bloody HELL!"

He explodes and she retreats quickly, still not used to Mr. Holmes' sometimes voluble exclamations. Not for the first time in 24 hours, she prays that Anthea returns quickly.

OooOooO

John and Sherlock waste no time in gathering the occupants of the mansion into the formal dining room – the only room that does not have windows and is large enough to hold them – with the exception of Sherlock's lab and the laundry and storage areas.

John has no way of knowing if the sniper is using one of the high velocity rifles that will actually shoot through walls. But this room is not on any outside walls and it has no windows. It is the best they can do at the moment.

John stands in front of the small group, dressed in jeans, an army-green tee and boots. A single dog tag hangs around his neck and he stands at his full height, his arms crossed over his chest, and addresses the agents, while Sherlock stays outside the dining room in the hallway and calls Mycroft. The damn phone rings and rings. His eyes narrow and he begins to text. He hits SEND with a determined finger, then dials the number again, frowning. From time to time, he glances in at John – and is amazed at how the doctor appears to have grown a few inches in height in the past couple of minutes.

Jake Lynn lies in a far corner on a pile of coats and jackets. The man is unconscious and his face is pale and shiny with sweat. Lori Hansen and Galen Dennison kneel next to him. Galen finishes affixing a pressure bandage on Jake's shoulder, then gives the man a shot of morphine from his kit. Lori lifts a portable blood pressure cuff, but Galen shakes his head.

"Not yet," he says quietly "Let's give him some time." He considers Lori thoughtfully "Besides, there's nothing we can do about it anyway, not with what we've got on hand."

Lori nods and pulls out cotton wadding from her medical kit to clean Jake's forehead. Galen hands her gauze and soft tape and she carefully applies the dressing to stop the bleeding from Jake's temple. She bathes his face, and murmurs softly to the injured man. His breath comes in short gasps. Galen and Lori look at each other.

Roaman, Enders and Williams stand around John in a semi-circle. Maggie Oakton sits on one of the formal dining chairs, a few feet away, and does not take her eyes off John.

In fact, no one takes their eyes off John Watson, and this includes Sherlock, who finally connects with his brother, but still stands and stares into the dining room at the glorious sight of one Doctor John – no, make that Captain John Watson - who easily and without fanfare has taken charge of the current situation – " _Whatever the hell that is_ ," Sherlock thinks.

The three agents, at first stunned when John gathers them for a briefing, are now over their initial shock at seeing the good doctor up and around and so obviously in – if not excellent health, at least better than any of them can remember seeing since they arrived.

And none of them even consider arguing with him for a moment. John stands in front of the three men, arms still crossed over his chest and quietly talks.

John glances over at Jake Lynn's quiet form and frowns. He addresses Roaman. "Bring one of the smaller mattresses, along with blankets, from one of the guest rooms not being used," John tells him. "We need to get Jake off the floor."

Roaman glances momentarily at Agent Enders, then nods at John and leaves.

"I'll go with to help," Williams offers.

John shakes his head. "He can manage, Don. I need you here."

Agent Don Williams hesitates for a fraction of a second, then glances at Rob Enders, the senior agent. Enders looks directly at John, who calmly looks back at him. John just waits. He expects this and he stands there and calmly waits for everyone to come to the logical conclusion.

Enders frankly inspects John, from the toe of his boots to the top of his head. He pays particular attention to John's body language, the very real fact that neither of his hands shake, not currently, and then looks into John's eyes.

John Watson stares steadily back at him. And raises one quizzical eyebrow. "Well?" he says.

His voice is quiet. His voice is calm and determined.

His voice is the voice of command.

Then it happens. It's beautiful to behold and Lori and Maggie, nearly, miss it. Rob Enders ends his obvious perusal of John Watson, then nods briefly at Don Williams – and Don Williams nods at John. "All right. Tell me what you need," he says quietly.

And just like that, Captain John Watson assumes total command over Mycroft's men.

Lori glances up from the wounded agent, just in time to witness the nearly imperceptible posturing and allows herself a quick smile.

"Watsons's Warriors," she murmurs to herself. She looks across the room to Maggie, who looks back at her. The women grin at each other, then return their attention to the matter at hand.

"What?" Galen looks up from Jake to Lori. She shakes her head. "Nothing, Doctor Dennison."

John glances at Galen Dennison and Lori Hansen. "I need every bit of medical supplies and equipment the two of you have with you gathered up and brought here in this room now. Set it up at one end of this," John waves a hand to indicate the huge dining table, which easily seats 18. Galen nods at Lori, murmurs "My room's unlocked," and Lori rises and rushes from the room.

Maggie Oakton raises her voice and Lori stops at the door briefly. "Lori, I have some supplies in my room, as well."

She does not rise from her chair, however, as John has not told her to yet. Frankly, she is stunned. Lori just nods and rushes from the room.

John affixes Don Williams with his steady gaze. "Don, please go with her."

Williams nods, "Yes Sir" and leaves quickly. In the hallway, he passes Sherlock, grins briefly at the detective, then hurries to catch up with Hansen.

"Mycroft? We've got a bloody situation here!" Sherlock glances after Williams and Hansen, then turns to look into the room where John Watson has just taken control of their lives.

If he weren't so damned mad at the entire situation, he'd grin.

OooOooO

"You want me to take an Apache helicopter into suburbia to pick up a wounded man!" he says, incredulous.

"I do not believe I stuttered, Patrick," Mycroft Holmes says. He stands at his window and stares out at the city.

"Who in the bloody hell do you think you are, Mycroft? The bloody queen herself or what? Good God, man, we're on maneuvers this week and I've even got Prince –"

"Shall I tell you who I think I am, Patrick?" Mycroft's voice is cold, brooks no rejection. "Or perhaps, since you were good enough to bring it up, we should get the Palace on the phone right now and clear up this little misunderstanding."

"Misunderstanding! Bloody hell, man. I sympathise that no life flight is available but you'll have to get your man out another way. As for –"

"Lieutenant Jacob Lynn," Mycroft intones.

"Lieutenant Jacob – You've got Jake Lynn there?"

"Affirmative."

"Jake's your wounded man? Damn it, Mycroft –"

"Are you going to help us or aren't you? We can't get him out any other way. They'll be fired upon as soon as they hit the road – hell, as soon as they pull out into the drive. And he doesn't have much time," Mycroft's hand grasps the plastic of his mobile and he looks out at the gray morning. At least the eternal rain has stopped.

There is dead silence on the phone.

"Patrick – you've got your people on maneuvers this weekend. We both know that. And they aren't _that_ far away from the mansion. We both know that, as well. Just think of this as one more step in their training exercises. Besides, if I have to make that call to the Palace, I will do so. Care to wait on the other line?"

"I swear to Christ, Mycroft, if you ever –"

"Yes. Yes. We know the drill, don't we, Patrick? Now pay attention. Here's the address. You can get the coordinates from this. And for pity's sake, tell your men to have a care. We have a sniper in the bloody woods and we don't want a repeat of what happened to Agent – to Mr. Lynn."

Patrick sighs and pinches his nose between a thumb and forefinger. "You don't want to risk the people in the house but you do want me to risk my pilot and one very expensive chopper? What the fuck, Mycroft! Presumably, you've got local law enforcement on their way in now with an armored van and backup?"

"Just take down the address, Patrick. And hurry. Lynn doesn't have much time. And let me worry about the bloody sniper. Our entire attention is focused on keeping those in the mansion safe."

"And you think landing an Apache helicopter on your lawn won't put them in even more danger?"

"I'm not going to lose a good man. You're going to land it as far back on the estate as possible, approximately a half mile behind and away from the house. My people will meet you in the Rover with Jake – Agent Lynn. And you're going to have your pilot get in and out in less than one minute. Got that?"

More silence. Mycroft shuts his eyes and considers shouting. Then –

"Give. Me. The. Sodding. Coordinates."

Mycroft sighs. Patrick did not call his bluff. "We'll have Lynn ready as soon as you're in near distance. And make sure you've got a stretcher and medic on board."

"Tell me how to do my job, Mycroft Holmes. And give me the blasted address now so I can get those coordinates to my pilot."

OooOooO

Victoria Regina Catherine Holmes, known as Regina to all and sundry, sits in the back seat of her limousine and taps one long, elegant and beautifully manicured finger against the arm rest.

"How much farther, Jenkins?" she asks.

Her chauffeur meets her eyes in his rearview mirror. "Less than ten minutes, Mum,"

She nods. "Good." She picks up her mobile to call her eldest son again.

"Excuse me, Mum?"

Regina Holmes looks up from her mobile – and frowns.

"Jenkins, what the bloody hell is that up ahead?"

He shakes his head, his white hair moving like dandelion fluff around his aged skull. "Looks like some sort of road block, Mum."

She considers the road ahead thoughtfully. Regina Holmes did not give birth to – and raise – both Mycroft Holmes and Sherlock Holmes without knowing a thing or two. Her eyes narrow.

"Jenkins?"

"Yes, Mum?"

"There is absolutely no bloody reason for that road block to be there."

"No, Mum."

"Jenkins?"

"Yes, Mum?"

"Turn this car around and get the bloody hell out of here!"

"Yes, Mum."

The aged chauffeur slows the car and begins the turn. A small crack appears in the side window and he slumps over the steering wheel.

"Jenkins!"

"Sorry, Mum," comes the oh-so-quiet whisper.

"Oh, bloody hell, Jenkins."

"Yes, Mum. So sorry, Mum."

He does not speak again for a long time.

OooOooO

Deborah comes into his office, white-faced. Mycroft looks up and for one brief moment, thinks _Anthea._ She must know what his first thought is, because she shakes her head.

"No, Sir. She's fine. I just spoke with her. It's – line two, Sir," she says.

Mycroft stares at her, then hits the button and picks up his landline.

"Mycroft Holmes."

"Aw, the elder of the Holmes brothers. Good. Just the man I want to speak with. You know, Mr. Holmes, you are not an easy man to reach, even if I do have your private office number."

Mycroft frowns at the cocky voice. He cannot place it.

"I believe you have me at a disadvantage," he says.

"Oh, you better believe I do, Holmes. But here, I don't want to waste your time or mine, so I'll let you have a word. Hang on."

A moment's silence.

"Son?"

Mycroft 's world goes white. He shuts his eyes and just manages to keep himself from groaning aloud. All his worst fears are contained in that one three-letter word. He opens his eyes to stare at Deborah, who stares back at him, wild-eyed. There appears to be a very determined buzzing in his brain.

He continues to stare at her while he gathers his thoughts. When he speaks, it is to his credit that his voice is calm and steady as a rock.

"Mummy?"

OooOooO

John addresses Enders and Roaman. "We have no chance against a sniper, not with the weapons we have here. Unless you brought something I'm unaware of?" He stares at both agents.

Both agents shake their heads. Enders speaks for both of them. "Sir, none of us expected this. The only weapons we have are the ones on our person, and Jake's, of course." Enders turns slightly to glance at Sherlock, who has nearly reached the shouting stage with Mycroft.

"And I believe Mr. Holmes has one or two—"

"Yes. A Makarov in his ankle holster and one clip for that, and my Army issue Browning." John considers both men and purses his lips. "Which is where, exactly?"

Roaman answers immediately. "Mr. Holmes had us lock it in the safe in the library a few days back, Sir." He does not bring up the reason _why_ Sherlock had him lock it up.

John nods thoughtfully. "Please go and get it and the clip. There are two bullets missing. And for fuck's sake – keep your head down."

Roaman nods and leaves quickly, pulling a small circle of keys out of his pocket. He rushes by Sherlock.

If he'd slowed down a little and looked at the detective's face, he might have stopped and asked Sherlock Holmes what was wrong.

As it is, he hurries by with a brief glance.

OooOooO

Galen Dennison gives John Watson an injection in the crook of his arm. When it's done, Lori moves in to affix a bandage and John just waves her away. He works his arm up and down a few times, then nods once at Galen.

Galen and Lori then move to tend to Jake Lynn. Lori glances back at John as she walks. She looks thoughtful as she kneels next to Jake to check his temperature.

Agent Enders watches as Roaman and Williams set the mattress down in the corner and carefully lift Jake onto it. Lori covers him with a blanket, then bathes the man's face with a cool cloth. She takes his pulse, and frowns at Galen.

Finished, the three agents check their phones, then come to stand next to John again.

He looks at the three men and thinks. Then he grimaces. "I've been remiss. We've been here for over 35 minutes and I don't have anyone guarding the doors." He frowns at his words.

Enders speaks up. "Captain Watson, the doors are all locked. Every single one of them is a double-bolt lock and while that won't hold against a direct hit, the security alarms are all on, as well. Right now, a bird can't fly into the place without alarms going off all over the place."

John stares at him. "Then why didn't the shot upstairs set them off?"

"Because, Sir, they've been off the entire time we have been here. I just reactivated them."

"What the bloody fuck!" John exclaimed. "Whose stupid decision was that?"

The agents all look at each other. "Er, Mr. Holmes, sir," says Enders. "He felt, since no threat existed at the time, not in this location, and since the alarm system, if activated, would necessitate dealing with – _'relatively untrained and pedestrian security_ _personnel'_ – his words, not mine, Sir - and since all four of us were here, and at one time, six of us, that—"

"Never the hell mind," John says. "I'll take it up with him later."

Maggie Oakton speaks up from where she sits off to the side.

"John – Doctor - Captain Watson, I want to help," she says quietly.

John considers her. He smiles grimly. "Captain Watson is just fine, Maggie. Do you know how to handle a gun?"

Maggie looks horrified. "No."

John nods. "Then I hope you won't think this is a sexist statement – but Maggie, we're going to need food. Something simple. Sandwiches will be just fine."

She nods. "Okay."

He thinks quickly.

"Maggie, is all the available food in the kitchen?" John asks.

Maggie considers the question. "As far as I know, Captain Watson, the answer is yes."

"Excuse me, Captain Watson," Agent Roaman says. "Mr. Holmes has had so much food delivered here recently, that Don – Agent Williams and I - have been storing the excess in the freezer and extra pantry, both of them off the garage. The fresh items, of course, have gone into the fridge in the kitchen."

John nods and considers. "We are going to need some meals, at least while we figure this situation out."

He turns to Roaman. "Is the only microwave in the kitchen?"

"Not certain, Sir. There might be an extra stored in the pantry off the garage. " Roaman says.

John nods. "Very well. I want you and Doctor Oakton to collect whatever food you can. Please get that microwave in here. And Maggie?"

"Yes?" she says.

He nods at Roaman and Oakton. "Please go do what you can and get some of those protein drinks from the fridge, as well. We might be able to get some of it down Jake. And for fuck's sake –"

Roaman turns to consider John Watson. 'I know, Sir. Keep our heads down."

John nods. "Good man."

Then he considers Williams and Enders. "Gentlemen – tell me your plan for securing this fucking huge mansion, until we get some backup. And God help us all."

The three of them look at each other.

OooOooO

Agent Enders' phone rings. He glances at the screen. "Mr. Holmes," he says.

John nods at him. "Take it," he says.

Enders nods. "Sir? Yes sir? And – say that again, Sir? No, Sir. You did not stutter, Sir. Yes Sir, we'll be ready."

Enders hangs up, drops his phone in his pocket and addresses Captain John Watson.

"Mr. Holmes has arranged for a helicopter to pick up Jake – Agent Lynn and take him to hospital, Sir." He glances at his watch, "In about 22 minutes from now."

John stares at him. "You mean a life flight copter is going to attempt to land here? They'll be picked off the moment –"

Enders shakes his head. "No sir. Not a regular life flight. It's an – er, chopper that's currently on military maneuvers. Mr. Holmes has – _appropriated_ it- and we are to take the Rover, with Jake, and drive straight to the back of the estate, about a half mile sir, in order to meet the chopper. We need to get him ready now, Sir."

John stares at him. "Let me get this straight: Mycroft Holmes has arranged for a chopper currently being used on maneuvers – you mean an Apache chopper is coming to collect Jake?"

Enders nods. "Yes, Sir. That's basically it, Sir."

John purses his lips and whistles. "Damn straight," is all he says.

He looks around. "Doctor Dennison, Ms. Hansen, please prepare Jake Lynn. We're getting him the hell out of here."

Lori nods, her eyes shining.

John watches them while they wrap Jake up in a blanket and prepare to carry him to the Land Rover. He hopes they'll be able to get the man to the lift sight without further shots being fired. He frowns. They have no way of protecting themselves if more shots are fired. Everyone will just have to keep their heads down. The way the garage and hill are angled, they should be able to pull the Rover out, then turn it and drive directly behind the house and on for a half mile.

John looks up to glance at Sherlock, who stands just outside the door, and watches the proceedings. The detective raises one eyebrow.

OooOooO

"Yes, Ms. Hansen." John says determinedly.

"No Captain Watson. I'm not going." Lori clenches her fists at her side and stares at him. She is tiny. One of the few people actually shorter than John Watson. He has to fight to keep himself from grinning at her.

"Lori - if I have to, I'll have you picked up and put on that helicopter - manhandled, if you will. But you are getting out of this mansion. Now."

She sticks her chin out and stares him down. "No, John, I'm not. You are going to need a medical crew. And right now, Doctor Dennison and I are all you've got. And if you try to make me - I'll - I'll -" her eyes fill and she looks up at him in desperation. "Sod it. My Dad fought in Afghanistan and my cousin is fighting there now. And this," she waves her hand, "this is _my_ battle, Doctor Watson. Or Captain Watson. Or John. And I. Am. Staying."

She crosses her arms over her chest and dares him to move toward her.

John stares at her, considering. Suddenly, he grins - and sighs. "Okay, then. And thank you, Lori."

She nods. "Damn straight."

OooOooO

Sherlock hangs up with Mycroft and comes back into the dining room – now their temporary HQ – to be with John.

His mobile rings. He hangs back and glances at the screen and briefly wonders why Mycroft is calling him so soon – again. He sincerely hopes this call means they have more men on their way or a fucking armored carrier with a dozen of Mycroft's men – all armed to the teeth.

"Mycroft."

"They've got Mummy."

Dead silence.

"Tell me," Sherlock says in a hoarse voice.

His heart pounds in his chest. A red haze appears in front of his eyes – the same haze he experienced the day he left the mansion and boarded a private jet to execute one James Moriarty.

A similar thought occurs at this moment.

Mycroft must have known he would react – like this. Mycroft must expect him to make the exchange. Which he will do, of course. Still -

Sherlock frowns and goes over the variables again. Then he raises his head and stares into the room straight at John Watson.

" _I left him once. I lied and left him. And I vowed never to do it again."_

John is speaking with two of his men (" _His men,"_ thinks Sherlock _. "How odd. How very odd … yet - fitting.")_

He makes eye contact with John. All of John's alarm bells ring.

John raises one eyebrow, then says something to the agents. John comes out into the hallway. Sherlock watches him walk toward him.

Sherlock shuts his eyes momentarily and calls up a mental photograph of his Mother.

He runs a quick scenario – **_One second_** \- if he turns and walks toward the garage. **_Two_** **_seconds -_** If he commandeers one of the cars. **_Three seconds_** \- If he drives it toward the barricade.

Following his possible actions to their probable outcome … It is entirely – possible – that **_four seconds_** \- he gets both he and his mother fucking killed.

He opens his eyes, to stare into the dark blue gaze of John Watson, who has come out into the hallway and now stands in front of him.

"Sherlock?"

OooOooO

"No, Sherlock."

"Fine. Then you tell me what we're going to do. And while you're coming up with your master plan, John, kindly remember that this is my Mother. They've got her. And they will not hesitate to - "

Sherlock's mobile rings again. He glances at the screen. "Mycroft" he says. John nods.

"Mycroft?" Sherlock pushes the speaker button and holds the phone between his ear and John's.

"Sherlock – he called again. I spoke with her. If you don't turn yourself over to them – now – or someone doesn't deliver your body - now – they'll shoot her in the head. They've given us ten minutes. Nine now. After that, we get the video of her – assassination."

"Mycroft –"

"Sherlock, my hands are tied. Even if the six of you try to storm the place – and we all know that's impossible – the minute they see anyone other than you, Mummy's dead. It's that simple. I can't. Get. To. Her. In time. Sherlock – there is no other way."

Dead silence.

John stirs. And speaks for the first time.

"Mycroft – did they say what they intend to do with Sherlock if he turns himself over?"

"John? Sherlock, you might have told me that –"

"Hell, Mycroft. There's no time. Just answer his questions."

"Fine. John – Sherlock, they – didn't say. I can only assume the worst but I don't know that to be the fact."

John nods at the mobile and thinks. "Mycroft, if Sherlock drives down there, by himself as they demand, to exchange himself for your Mother, do you really expect them to turn her over? To make the exchange?"

"John, I've been doing this a long time and the answer is – I just don't know. I wish I could give you a different answer."

"Seven minutes, gentlemen," Sherlock says.

John stares at him. "Go."

Sherlock's eyes widen. "Say that again."

John Watson moves to stand directly in front of Sherlock. He takes the mobile out of his love's hand, leaves the line open, lowers it to his side.

"I said, Go. Go now. I'll – we'll get you both out – somehow. But go, before it's too late."

The two men look at each other. John raises slightly and Sherlock bends his head. The kiss is slight, hardly more than a brush of lips, a warmth, some pressure. Then it's over.

Sherlock nods and turns to rush toward the garage.

"Sherlock!" John calls after him. He pulls what he thinks of as his useless mobile out of his pocket and hands it to the detective. Sherlock glances into John's eyes one last time, then nods and takes the phone, drops it in his pocket.

" _Five minutes,"_ Sherlock thinks.

"John? John? What just happened? What's he doing?"

John watches Sherlock walk down the hall and he glances at his watch. Then he holds the mobile up to his ear.

"He's going to make the exchange, Mycroft." He hears the curses even as Sherlock disappears through the door that leads to the garage.

John raises the mobile again. "Mycroft, we need to talk. Now. But first, I need more men."

"More men? " Mycroft's voice is harsh, even in John's ears, even over the roaring sound he hears in his head.

"The three men we have here aren't going to be enough, Mycroft," John says determinedly. He continues to stare at the doors that Sherlock just disappeared through. "Mycroft, we also need weapons. But anyone who comes down that road is going to be killed outright."

"John – I think I might be able to help you there."

OooOooO

Sherlock commandeers one of the SUVs, leaves the Rover and the other two cars for the other's use. He deactivates the alarm, which for the first time since they have been in the mansion now appears to be on, presses the button to open the garage – and sits there for a second, wondering if a sniper's bullet is about to bury itself in his brain. Then he just tosses John's mobile on the seat next to him and takes the car down the long drive and toward the woods. And Mummy.

OooOooO

Sherlock has been gone one minute exactly. John stands and watches Williams and Roaman secure the injured agent in the back seat, then they nod at John. Williams gets into the driver's seat. He stares at John. "I'll be back shortly, Sir," he says.

John nods. "Good. Be careful."

Williams nods. They deactivate the alarm, press the button to open the garage, and Williams pulls the Rover out at high speed, then immediately swings to the left and aims for the rolling lawns in the back of the house. Roaman moves to reactivate the alarm.

A text chime sounds. John looks over at Roaman. The agent glances at his mobile. And nods at John.

"He's away, Sir."

John nods. "Their attention will be on Sherlock, not the Rover," he says quietly. "Agent Roaman, I need -" He stops - and stares. "What's that?" he says.

Roaman follows his gaze. "Actually, Sir, it's yours."

John raises one eyebrow, then walks over to the object, covered by two tarps and multiple bungy cords. He unties it, pulls the tarps off. Then he just stands back and stares. Under any other circumstances, he'd whistle.

He looks up at Roaman.

"Get me two guns and two clips. Move – now," he says.

Roaman rushes back into the house.

John glances at his watch, then stares at the brilliant yellow Harley Davidson.

It just might work.

"We've been here before, Sherlock," he thinks. "We've been here before."

While he waits for Roaman, he pulls out Sherlock's mobile and calls Mycroft to threaten him with death.

OooOooO

Sherlock drives steadily toward the woods. When he reaches the end of the driveway, instead of turning left toward London, he turns right and drives until he encounters the barrier.

He cuts the motor . Then just sits there and waits.

He doesn't have to wait long.

His text chime sounds. He reaches over, glances at it, Agent Enders. He reads the text. Then turns the phone off and tosses it on the floor of the SUV.

Two men come up and one of them gestures with a handgun. The other holds a rifle.

Sherlock sighs. And gets out of the car. He keeps his hands in the clear.

The man with the rifle walks around behind him. Sherlock goes very still.

He stands in front of the men, his hands in the air. "I trust you have Mrs. Holmes here, safe -" he begins to say. Before he can finish his statement, something hard and unyielding crashes down on his skull - and he drops like a rock.

OooOooO

"My dear?"

"Yes Sir?" Anthea sighs. The sooner she gets out of this hospital, the better. In the meanwhile, she has to admit that it's a novelty - having time to actually get caught up on her reading.

"We have an injured agent. He's being brought into Bart's shortly via helicopter. I thought, if you feel up to it–"

"Of course, Sir. Who is it and what happened?"

Mycroft tells her.

Anthea's eyes widen. When he hangs up, she goes to the nurses' station to ask them to let her know when Jake Lynn is admitted and what room he'll be brought to.

She walks slowly back to her hospital room to sit on the edge of the bed and wait. She remembers Agent Jake Lynn. A good man and one of the more quiet agents. Anthea sighs. They're all good men.

OooOooO

Sherlock comes to suddenly, jerks awake as if he has heard a clarion call. There is no slow return to consciousness, no gradual awakening. He is out. And then he is awake.

And everything more or less hurts like hell.

"Son," he hears _her_ voice and turns his head, allows his gaze to travel slowly upward, dirt, grass, rock, all dark with recent rain, up to the edges of some sort of box, weapons cache? Ammo box? Over her designer shoes with their sensible short heels, upward along her trousers, cream linen, tailored, expensive, utterly ruined now, of course, over her hands - bound - where she holds them in her lap, up, up and finally looks into his mother's cool gray eyes.

The same eyes she passed on to him 35 years ago.

She sits opposite him, and has to look down to see him, as he so obviously lies on the ground. He can feel the slight damp under his jeans and shirt.

"Hello, Mummy," he breathes.

He notes she sits up, back ramrod straight (" _Of course, she is a Holmes female; is there any other way to sit?")_ that she appears unharmed, (" _Thank fate — well, thank someone, at any rate"_ ) and she currently stares at her youngest with – (" _can that be concern_?") He tries to think of the last time his mother showed obvious concern for him and gives it up as an exercise for another time.

"Mother," he acknowledges quietly in a rather hoarse voice. "Are you all right?" and knows even as he says the words how tremendously stupid they sound.

She raises one eyebrow, something else she lent her youngest son, and sighs, clearly aggrieved.

"I think we've both been better, Sherlock," she says. But there is no imperious tone in her voice and for that, Sherlock is grateful.

He removes his gaze from his maternal parent for a moment, tries to glance around at their surroundings but realises he cannot move his head more than an inch without bright, searing pain intruding on his skull. So he remains still, shuts his eyes momentarily, and prepares to take a quick recce, as John would put it, of his own injuries. Before they go forward, he must know what he has to deal with.

Something hurts. Something hurts a great deal, so he remains calm and lets his mind wander over his body.

His head hurts like bloody hell and his vision is slightly blurred, just slightly. " _Probable concussion,"_ he thinks. John would tell him to stay awake, not to go to sleep. But John is not here. Yet.

He continues his physical examination downward along his aching body. Neck strained but that comes from his current position, which is on his side, on the ground. And from staring upward at his mother.

Torso? Scratches and bruises. He can feel that his skin is raw in places. He shifts. And gasps. Possible broken rib? He shifts again, ever so slightly. Yup. Not broken, but possibly cracked. Just the one, " _thank – whoever again_." He wonders how John managed to breathe in the Wellington and in St. Anne's with several cracked and broken ribs.

He doesn't want to know. And John is not here to ask.

Of course, his Army doctor / Captain is not here, because John would not let a moment go by without freeing him from whatever holds his wrists together and is causing pinpoints of agony to shoot up and down his arms. His arms feel strained and are currently held in front of him. He lies against his right shoulder and both arms are bound with something. Something truly terrible.

Hands - swollen and in pain. He tries to wriggle his fingers and hisses again.

_Wrists?_

_Oh, bloody hell._

He is restrained. And restrained with something that presses inward with sharp edges every time he moves. He shifts his wrists slightly, which causes a sudden inhalation of breath. He then stops as the pain presses on nerve endings he did not realize he even had. He can feel the tiny stinging electric shocks travel up and down the insides of his arms.

So he does the judicious thing and stops moving.

Sherlock tears his glance away from his mother's grey gaze, now exhibiting what he can only deduce as parental concern ( _odd, that - catalogue and keep for later perusal_ ) and looks down along his arms which are bound and held in front of him. His eyes widen.

Barbed wire.

His wrists are bound with a double strand of what can only be barbed wire. The double loops press both wrists together, with just an inch and a half of space between, the vicious barbs, like the bright tips of razor blades, press inward, the ends twisted and crimped together. The strands of wire effectively keep him from struggling to free himself. Several of the cruel barbs have already punctured his wrists and multiple pinpoints of blood well up and spill over, as the blood runs down his arms and begins to encircle his wrists in tiny crimson streams.

"How – inventive," he whispers.

Another bout of pain intrudes and Sherlock doesn't have to see to know that his ankles are bound in exactly the same manner. But over the tops of his socks, and not over his bare skin, which fact he is momentarily grateful for. He wonders what has become of his shoes. Going forward, they might be useful.

"Sherlock – Son," his mother says quietly.

He yanks his gaze from his wrists up to his mother's face. Even though his vision blurs and becomes more so, he can see well enough to note that she is more conventionally tied, with what appears to be nylon rope. He tries to smile at her, to reassure her that everything is all right and that they have everything under control.

He fails miserably.

Sherlock's vision spikes, as a truly terrible pounding in his head makes him suddenly nauseous. He manages, barely, not to gag at the sudden onslaught of pain. It would be simply embarrassing – make that mortifying – to choke on his own vomit in front of Mummy.

His eyes narrow as he tries to concentrate on Regina Holmes' grey gaze.

 _"Make that a most definite concussion, and head injury,"_ Sherlock thinks, as he becomes aware that warm liquid drips down his hairline, and then downward into his eyes.

He looks into his mother's eyes, gone slightly greyish-green now. Is this how his eyes appear to John? _"Another inappropriate_ _thought._ _Today seems to be the day for them."_

The pounding in his head reaches a crescendo. He winces.

"Sherlock?" the concern very evident in her voice now. He wonders at the sudden warmth in it.

The pain paints his world a deep, dark red, shot through with tiny lightning bolts - in the form of neon flashes of bluish-white, for effect.

"Oh bloody hell, Mother," he gasps. His eyes rolls up in their sockets and he passes out again.

"Sherlock!" Victoria Regina Catherine Holmes stares at her youngest son. And frowns. _Well, this situation is just - intolerable._ She looks up and glares at their captors.

OooOooO

Anthea turns to retrieve her purse and leave Jake Lynn's hospital room.

"Lizabeth?" His voice is hushed, a raspy whisper, dulled with the pain of his injury.

Her eyes widen, as her back straightens and she slowly turns to see Jake Lynn's warm brown eyes looking at her. New pain lines crease his forehead and crinkle his eyes. He is obviously feverish, and sweat beads dot his forehead and the sides of his face. His dark brown curls lie flattened against his skull, and stand out against the white of the bandage. His left hand reaches to grip her, gently but firmly, around her wrist, his fingers too warm on her cool skin.

"Lizabeth?" he says hesitantly, as he stares into her eyes.

She swallows and is aware her heart has begun to pound in her chest.

"How – how did you -?"

He smiles, a tired, weak smile, tinged with pain and exhaustion. His voice is even weaker now and she has to bend over the feverish, injured agent to even hear him.

"Always known your name. Always….from the second day ….your beautiful, beautiful name," he whispers, his fingers a warm circle that tightens slightly on her skin.

She stares into his eyes and notes the gold flecks that surround the warm brown of his pupils.

"Please, Lizabeth, my Liz … don't go," his voice wavers and he briefly shuts his eyes in pain, then opens them again to stare into her dark liquid eyes.

"Stay," he murmurs.

Her pulse rate soars as she stares at Jake Lynn, then she reaches out one slim hand and gently brushes her long fingers through the damp curls which cling to his forehead.

"Agent Lynn – " she says hesitatingly.

His voice is a small harsh whisper now. "Jacob…my name…Jacob."

She swallows past the small rocks that have taken up residence in her throat and chest. And nods. She knows his first name. She knows all their first names.

"All right – Jacob," she says. "Just for a little while."

He nods once, satisfied, then smiles briefly as he releases her wrist and his hand drops to his side. His eyes close in exhaustion. She glances around, finds the guest chair and pulls it up to sit by the side of his hospital bed.

She studies his even features, his face – slightly tan - the mass of chestnut curls, his hands as they lay fitfully by his side - and frowns, suddenly panicked.

**_Here? Now?_ **

She shuts her eyes, shakes her head and then opens them again to stare at the injured man. This cannot be happening. It just can't.

She has vowed not to _ever_ let this happen. Not ever. Mycroft's agents do not have long life spans. And she has just completed her doctorate … she has no intentions of … she promised herself … _No,_ she tells herself. No. Just – NO.

She stares wonderingly at his honest, open face, damp with sweat, reddened now with fever - and her eyes soften.

Still …

She reaches for the small cup of ice water, moistens the cloth that she previously placed on the table, and gently wipes his forehead and the side of his face.

Jacob does not open his eyes again, but at the soft touch of the blessed coolness, he smiles … a small, boyish smile … and her heart does a slow turn in her chest.

"Beautiful Lizabeth … always…my lovely Liz..." he murmurs. Her eyes widen, but she continues to rinse out the cloth and bathe his face and forehead with cool water.

His head begins to turn back and forth on the pillow and he whispers quiet things, gentle things, impossible things, but over them all, always, always comes the same murmured refrain…"Lizabeth…my beautiful Lizabeth…stay…stay with me…"

Slowly, as the agent's fever climbs and he becomes delirious, her heartfelt vows begin to dissolve, like sugar in warm water.

When they come to take him to surgery, Anthea remains there, in his room, and waits.

And when they bring him back, five hours later, Lizabeth's still there, waiting.

OooOooO

* THERE BUT FOR THE GRACE OF JOHN WATSON, CH. 7


	20. Chapter 20

**These lads, in their current incarnation, belong to the BBC and not to me and in their original incarnation, to the estate of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, may his name be blessed!**

**THE BOYS OF BAKER STREET**

**CH. 20**

Thanks go to DianeDuane who kindly (and invaluably) pointed out that Her Majesty the Queen's "nickname" is Lillibet. I have made that change in the two occasions it occurs ( I do hope that heads off any confusion when it arises in Book Three), as well as lending other invaluable "Brit Pik" help. Thanks DianeDuane! You will know Diane Duane, of course, as the well known American Science Fiction and Fantasy author. Some of her works include the classic Trek books: **_The Wounded Sky (my personal favorite); Spock's World_** and ** _Doctor's Orders._** She is the author of **_The Young Wizards_** books and many other beautifully written works of Science Fiction and of Fantasy, too numerous to list here.

**PROMISES: ANGST; CHEMICAL INTERROGATION; ATTEMPTED MURDER; VIOLENCE; RETRIBUTION AND ENOUGH BAMF BEHAVIOR TO SATISFY THE MOST DIE-HARD ENTHUSIASTS.**

OooOooO

She stands out of the way and watches as they bring Jake Lynn back to his room.

The nurses maneuver his bed into place, hook up the various hanging bags of drips and antibiotics, connect him to tubes and cords. Other nurses come in and take his blood pressure and temperature and check his bandages. And still other nurses come in and inject pain killers into his IV's and do other things – until, finally, she's left alone in the chair next to his bed. She sits. And waits.

For once, her fingers do not fly over the keys of her Blackberry.

OooOooO

**Seven Hours Earlier -**

Agent Don Williams sits in the Rover and watches for the helicopter that will take the wounded man to safety. Behind him, he hears a soft groan from Jake Lynn.

"Easy there, Jake," he murmurs.

Don whistles when the Apache comes into view. "Your ride is here, Jake and she's a beaut! Wish you could see this!"

Don's eyes widen as he gets his first close-up view of the Apache and he whistles again, a long, low whistle of appreciation. "Holy shite! Someone's arse is in a sling over this one!" He suspects the "someone" has the initials MH. He shakes his head.

The pilot easily lands the attack helicopter on the crest of the small hill. Don watches as a man jumps out of the gunner's seat, directly up front, and then runs toward him, his head down.

The two men have to continuously shout to be heard.

"Lieutenant Marsten," he shouts. "Hear you've got a wounded man! A Lieutenant Lynn."

Don nods. "But how are you—"

"I'm staying. We're going to strap him into the gunner seat, up front, and Jimmy'll get him to safety. We're transferring him to a Life Flight about 25 klicks from here. They just finished their run and are standing by to receive him. Jimmy'll be back to get me in no time. Now let's get your man out!"

Don just nods. "Okay then."

"Not a problem! But we gotta hurry. There's going to be hell to pay, as it is!"

Together the two men unstrap Jake from the back seat and between the two of them, they carry him to the waiting Apache.

The pilot, sitting in his seat, above and behind the gunner position, just waves a hand.

"Hurry it up!" he shouts. Don looks at his targeting helmet, and then catches a quick glance at the interior of the Apache. His eyes widen. This is the first time he's seen one of these beauties close up. Unfortunately, there is no time to spare for a guided tour.

Marsten leans Jake in and fastens him securely into the – now vacated – gunner's seat up front. Jake's head lolls to the side. He no longer makes any sounds and does not open his eyes. Don notes with a pang that Jake is beginning to bleed through the bandages. Marsten does his best with the blanket that covers Jake, tucks it around his unconscious form. Then he reaches in and lifts two metal boxes off the floor. He hands one back to Don, who takes it, and then both men give a thumbs up to the pilot.

"Get the fuck outta here," Marsten yells. The pilot nods and raises one hand.

Marsten and Don run back to the waiting Rover, their heads down, each carrying one of the metal boxes.

At the Rover, they turn to watch as the attack helicopter rises into the air, makes a quick turn and flies back, more or less, in the direction of the mansion.

Don turns to Marsten. "Can't thank you enough –"

Marsten grins. "As I said, there'll be hell to pay. As far as Jimmy and I are concerned, this never happened."

They watch as the helicopter flies away and is soon a tiny dot. Don and Marsten get into the Rover to await the return of Marsten's "ride."

The gunner turns to Don Williams, "So," he says, "I hear you got a bit of a sniper problem. Care to fill me in?"

He waves a hand at the two metal boxes, deposited on the back floorboard of the Rover. "Brought you a few items that might be of help."

Don Williams nods. And grins.

OooOooO

In the clearing, Anders and Glenn secure Sherlock, while Mick Billings watches, an amused expression on his face. Then he sees the blood that wells up from the back of the dark curls and drips down the side of the unconscious man's face.

"Tell me you didn't kill him," he demands. Glenn glances up from where they dump Sherlock's body on the ground and frowns.

"I thought you wanted –"

"Not until I make a call, and get a few photos," Billings snapped. "Is he? –"

"What would be the point of even carrying him over here if we'd killed him? Don't be a stupid arse," Glenn snaps. He reaches in to a small box that sits beside the larger wooden case and pulls out a string of plastic zip ties.

Regina Holmes, who currently sits on the larger box, inhales sharply when she recognises her youngest son. On the ground beside her and a few feet back, lies the body of Jenkins, her chauffeur and family servant. The older man is unconscious. His head rolls from side to side, slowly, as he groans. A tiny trickle of blood drips down the side of his neck and soaks his shirt collar. His hands are tied with nylon rope, the same type of rope that secures her own wrists.

She glances over at him, then back to Sherlock where he lies at a harsh angle on the wet ground in front of her. She narrows her eyes at Glenn and Anders, but says nothing. Her heart rate increases and she clenches her hands into fists.

"Son," she whispers.

Glenn notices this as he rummages for the zip ties. He regards her dispassionately.

"Best thing you can do for them both is to keep your mouth shut," he warns.

He finds what he looks for, then turns to go round the other side of Sherlock and bends over to secure the detective's wrists and ankles.

Mick Billings' eyes narrow as he watches this.

"Wait," he orders. He glances round, walks over to one of the boxes, then leans over and flips the lid. He looks up and gestures at Anders.

"I'm not taking any chances with Holmes. He's not to be killed – yet," he warns. He pulls out a pair of thick gloves from the box, then reaches down to pick up a small metal tool. Anders comes over to see what he's doing and flashes him a maniacal grin, as if he finds all of this extremely funny.

"Now you're talking," he says. He takes the tool and gloves from Billings and goes about cutting through a section of the wire, then takes it over to Glenn, who watches this with one raised eyebrow.

"I thought you wanted him intact until you got the word," he hisses.

Billings just smiles. "Let's just make that _relatively_ intact and alive, for now – yes. But nothing says I have to be nice about it."

He looks down at the detective's still body as Anders stoops and begins to twist the cruel wire – a single loop around Sherlock's ankles, after first tugging off his shoes and tossing them aside - and another loop, doubled around the detective's wrists. He twists the ends, grinning all the while.

"Besides," Mick says with venom in his voice. "He's the reason Jim is dead – and I was, nearly, out of a job. Reckon I owe him one. Or two."

Billings nods in approval as Anders finishes with his grim task.

Regina Holmes stares bloody murder at them all, tightlipped. But says nothing.

Anders just laughs, tosses the tool and gloves back into the box, then bends down to pick up his rifle.

The unmistakable sound of a helicopter has all three of them scrambling for their weapons. Regina lifts her head, tearing her gray eyes from the sight of her son, hideously bound, and lying unconscious at her feet. It does not escape her attention that blood pours from the head wound, flattening Sherlock's curls and dripping down his face and neck into the wet ground.

She, too, hears the sound and her eyes widen. At her feet, Sherlock stirs – and opens his eyes.

She looks down at him.

"Sherlock – Son."

He attempts to smile at her.

"Hello, Mother."

OooOooO

The pilot of the Apache helicopter, Jimmy Falks, glances at one of his screens.

"There's something down there, a clearing of some sort." He looks at a digital readout, nods. "Yup, I think I've found the location of the sniper that Holmes was on about."

"Understood. Give me the coordinates."

Jimmy grins, turns his state of the art fighting machine toward London and the rendezvous with the Life Flight. "Okay, you've got 'em." He looks at the gunner seat in front of and below him and its silent occupant. He shakes his head.

OooOooO

"Fuck and fuck!" Glenn picks up one of the rifles and glances up. He steps back out of the clearing, into the cover of the trees. "Get the fuck under cover!" he shouts to Billings and Anders.

Billings frowns, but remains where he stands, and clutches his Sig Sauer.

"Wait," he commands. "It might not –"

"Wait? What the hell for?" Anders says. They all have their heads tilted back to watch. Then the Apache comes into view, high overhead, headed west, toward London.

Glenn stares. And whistles. "Holy Mary, Mother of God!"

Before Billings can say a word, Anders lifts his rifle, sights - and fires.

He misses, of course, but his action is enough to cause Billings to surge forward, his Sig in his hands.

"You bloody fool!" he shouts. Anders lowers his rifle. His eyes narrow.

"What are you on about?" he demands. He rubs one sleeve over his mouth and grins at Billings. His pupils are still blown and Billings regards him, his own eyes narrowed.

"You idiot!" Billings says again. He lowers his Sig and the two men stand there, a few feet away from each other. "If they didn't know we were here, they sure as hell do now. What possessed you to fire—"

"Get outta my face, Billings," Anders shouts. "If they were looking for us, well – " he raises his rifle again. "they found us. I'm not running from a fight." He looks murder at Billings.

"Hey, easy," Glenn says. He lowers his own rifle, then watches the tiny retreating figure of the Apache. He shakes his head, then turns to look at the two men a scant few feet from each other.

"Listen – Anders? Put that damn thing down. And Billings – back off."

Billings whirs on him, his Sig at the ready. "When I need you to take charge, Glenn, I'll let you bloody well know!"

He strides back to the clearing, considers Regina Holmes and the two unconscious men, then tugs out his camera phone. He shouts over his shoulder. "Well? Going to help or not?"

Glenn sighs dramatically and walks over to him. He takes the phone from Billings outstretched hand. Billings waves at Regina.

"I need a clear head shot of her and Holmes. The old guy doesn't come into it. "

Glenn takes the phone and walks over to Regina to get the photo.

Billings continues to look beyond him at Anders, who still stands there, just out of the clearing, and watches the sky.

Mick shakes his head. "Bloody fool," he says again. "Going up against a sodding attack copter with a popgun!"

Anders does not take his eyes from the sky.

OooOooO

Sherlock is talking to John.

The fact that John is not actually - with - Sherlock does not appear to hinder the conversation.

"And … I'm no good at this, John, never have been. But – I'd like to think you are rubbing off on me and that I _am_ getting better at -." _Delete that. Start again._ "I would like to think, Doctor Watson, that I am becoming more adept at proclaiming my feelings and -"

Sherlock breaks off as a tiny lightning bolt shoots by his vision. He watches it until it fades into the blue, until he cannot see it any longer.

"John, I love you. I know I told you that day, in St. Anne's, but so much has happened – you've been so ill – and I'm not even going to pretend, John, that things are Great or Terrific – yet. But now that you've come back to me – to us – blast it, **_to me,_** John, well now that you're – YOU – again, things are most definitely better. Don't you think they're better, John? So much better. I have to admit, John, that when I thought that you were going to – when they told me you would most probably … "

Sherlock stops talking to John. Something deep red, absolutely brilliantly scarlet, walks up to him and stares him in the eye. He winces. And tries to look away.

_More lightning bolts, smaller ones. Same color as the others. Boring._

"There is no point in bringing up those two pills I keep hidden in the flat. Presumably, by now, Mycroft has found and disposed of them, so it's all good on _that_ front. Might have to replace them though, if we persist in this rather – violent - lifestyle. I know you, John Watson, and you would insist on binning them if you found them, although flushing would be just as – John? Don't cry, John. Because, truly, John Watson, you do not expect me to carry on without you by my side or in my bed, do you? No. Don't answer. I can see the anger in your eyes. Please don't cry, John. And – John? Yelling is certainly not conducive to – oh, John … I'm very much afraid …"

Sherlock stops breathing, temporarily. His brain immediately decides this action does not lend itself to the deductive process – and sends out the necessary signals to start up again.

**_Sherlock !_ **

**_You utter bastards! He needs medical attention. Now!_ **

"That was interesting, John. Moderately so, at any rate. Where were we? Oh, yes. I don't know how long you're going to have to take Dennison's injections. Neither of us knows that, John, and I won't make the same mistake, twice, of assuming that I know how you feel about all of that. Similar experiences do not, after all, necessarily lead to similar - Oh, hell – this isn't going well at all."

Sherlock breaks off and winces. It must be the brilliant atmospheric conditions which threaten his sani—his closed eyes. Because he has such an incredible headache. Maybe if he just keeps his eyes closed. Yes, that will work. John won't mind if he's not actually _looking_ at the doctor while he talks to him.

_John … John … John …_

"It's this blasted headache, John. You know how they affect me. You told me once that I live in my head. So true. Therefore, anything that threatens it, is particularly _a bit not good._ You were extremely intuitive about that, John. Really. I was quite impressed. I've always been terrif – perturbed by headaches. I don't – you said that even experts don't always understand why we get headaches - what causes them – and I've never been at peace with what I don't understand. I always want to pick it apart, examine it, solve it."

He stops again. "I know that last statement comes as a shock, John Watson."

**_Sherlock. Sherlock ?_ **

He tries to grin, fails. "That was humor, John."

_Another bright flash. He lets this one go by. Presumably, there will be others to examine._

"I'm rambling, John. And I never ramble, John. Did I tell you that I love you? Because it's true. So true. And you know what's really fascinating, John Watson? The emotion that I experience when I say those words - I. Love. You. It's incredible, John, because it, the emotion, I mean, comes with its own set of parameters. Parameters apparently linked directly to physical responses that - I'd catalogue them for you - the increase in heart and respiration rate, the obvious increase in blood pressure, not to mention the undeniable fact that most of my brain cells seem to temporarily starve for oxygen and my – other - extremities want for blood as it all tends to travel south of my belt and become lodged in my - but I know you hate it when I break things down into respective components. So I will just jot them down when I have the time and let you read over my notes."

_John … John …_

He breaks off again, to consider the particularly large lightning bolt that shoots through his skull, directly in his field of vision. _Interesting._

"Just three months ago, you said I've got 'smug' down to an art form, John. I believe that was immediately after the Sanderson Ice Pick case, John. But you must admit that I solved that one in record time, with two clues, John. Two. You can most probably add 'imperious' to that list. But then, we learn from the best. And growing up as a Holmes, John, believe me when I say 'imperious' doesn't even come close to describing - Oh, are we making a list? Apparently so."

_Sherlock pauses to consider if the bright blue flashes are part of his neural net. He's not certain and believes the question deserves further study - at a later date._

"You once called me a self-righteous bastard, John. I believe, no, I am certain that the occasion was directly after the Bruce-Partington case and you were right about that, too, John Watson. Right about the 'self-righteous bastard' part, I mean. Not right about the other. You were incredibly obtuse about that case, John. Really, I expected you to have it solved sooner than you did. But you did get there in the end, and that's what matters, correct, John?"

**_Sherlock – Son._ **

He holds his breath when a particular bright flash occludes his inner vision. Odd, that. He's never had an autonomic response actually slow down as it was occurring and give him the opportunity to examine it.

_Very odd. But gratifying, nonetheless._

"Where was I? Right. Don't be obtuse, John. I believe that was it."

**_Sherlock? Can you even hear me?_ **

"John? Are you there? Because I need to stop talking for a while and start listening. So, John, if you care to take up your end of the conversation, I would not object."

"Please, John."

"John?"

_John … John … John …_

OooOooO

"Mr. Billings," Ronald Adair's voice is firm.

Mick frowns at the sound. He expects to be congratulated upon capturing Holmes. Instead, Adair sounds – _irritated._

"Yes sir? You received the –"

"Yes, Mr. Billings, I received the photographs you just sent. You fool!"

Billings' eyes narrow at the sound of Adair's voice. "What? Now wait just a –"

"No, Mr. Billings. You will wait until I am done speaking. May I ask what prompted you to kidnap a close personal friend of her Majesty the Queen?"

Billings frowns. He turns slowly so he can clearly see Regina Holmes where she sits at the opposite edge of the clearing. She lifts her head from watching Sherlock – and looks in Billings' direction. When she realises he watches her, she sits up even straighter, as if that were possible. And looks back at him with a frosty gaze.

"Mr. Billings? Are you there? How in Gods' sake did you kidnap Regina Holmes? I did not authorize this action and expect her to be released immediately. Do you hear me, Billings?"

Mick lets out a slow breath. He frowns. "Now wait just a minute, Mr. Adair. This was not planned. She drove down here and we stopped her at the barricade. I had no idea who she was until we checked her I.D. It was just sheer luck."

"I do not care for the details, Mr. Billings. Regina Holmes is known quite well to the Palace. I expect her to be treated with kid gloves and to be returned to wherever you got her, as quickly as possible and with no damage to her person. Is that understood?"

Mick, angry now, begins to bluster. "You asked me to kill Holmes –"

"Is he dead?" Adair's voice is cold to the extreme. "Because I will be extremely perturbed if he is."

"What the fuck, Adair! You authorized me to capture Holmes. You said you wanted him dead. The Holmes woman blundered into our barrier, her car fucking drove right up to it. It was sheer coincidence –"

"I understood her to be out of the country, Billings. But that is neither here nor there. I do expect you to hold Holmes. We need him as a bargaining chip to get some of our people released."

Billings, beyond angry now, explodes. "That was never the agreement! I nearly had him killed outright. I only held off to notify you we had him and to take that photograph. Our agreement –"

"The situation has since changed, Mr. Billings. Therefore, our agreement has changed. Hold on to him. Do not kill him. Take no further action against Holmes, until I notify you otherwise. Is that clear?"

Billings looks over at the quiet figure on the ground in front of Regina Holmes. His eyes narrow.

"I said, Mr. Billings, is that extremely clear?"

"Yes, sir. It is clear."

"Good. I trust we understand each other. In the meantime, I wish you to release Regina Holmes quickly and with a minimum of fuss and bother."

"What about her chauffeur?"

"Her—you abducted her chauffeur?"

"Well, he was driving the car at the time, so I imagine he is the chauffeur. Afraid he's a little the worse for wear." Billings takes slow breaths and tries not to hyperventilate.

"Good God, man! Since when do you take matters into your own hands? I want both of them captured – Holmes and Watson. When you have accomplished that, return my call. In the meantime, I expect to hear from you that Regina Holmes has been released, unharmed. I expect firm evidence of her release. And immediately, once you've got Watson. How you bring about those two circumstances is entirely up to you."

Adair hangs up. Billings takes another deep breath and regards the woman who sits upright on the box.

"I'll do what I bloody well want with her," he says quietly, to no one in particular.

He drops his mobile in his pocket, then goes to find Anders.

OooOooO

John stands and looks at the Harley-Davidson. An idea forms just when his mobile – make that Sherlock's mobile – rings. He pulls it out of his pocket and glances at the screen. Just the man he needs.

"Mycroft."

"John, I just spoke with _him_ again. They put Mummy on. She's alive. Uninjured. They've got Sherlock. I – was not allowed to speak with him."

Dead silence. John's heart begins to pound in his chest and a faint red haze obscures his vision.

"Mycroft, "John's voice is impatient. _Sherlock … Sherlock …_

"John, I know what you're going through—"

"Like bloody hell you do!" John interjects.

Dead silence.

"Might I remind you, Doctor Watson, whose mother it is they have? And whose younger brother –"

"Mycroft, I'm sorry. That – that wasn't on. Shouldn't have said it. But dear God…" John runs one steady hand through his hair. Roaman comes back with two guns, a Sig and a Walther PPK, both of them Jake Lynn's. He stands there while John talks with Mycroft.

"Mycroft —"

"No, John. No. He's alive. Mummy assured me. But he's unconscious. And injured. Frankly, they let me speak with her longer than I expected."

"Injured," John repeats slowly. The haze becomes a brilliant red and his eyes widen. He looks at Agent Roaman and at the two guns in his hands.

"John, she – Mummy - said he might have a concussion. He's out cold. He did come to long enough to recognise her. And then he lost consciousness _again_. They will keep them alive, for the time being, if no one attempts a rescue. They want to deal."

"What kind of deal?" John's voice sounds harsh, unreal to him, even as he hears it. _Sherlock!_

"They want an exchange. But they want our reassurance first that no one will attempt a rescue. If they see a single car come down that road—"

"All right, Mycroft. I get the picture. What type of exchange? What are you not telling me?"

"John, it doesn't matter as it's not going to happen."

"Mycroft, for God's sake —"

"You. They want both of you. They're willing to let Mummy go, if we make the exchange."

John's mind whirls a mile a minute.

"And who goes with to bring Mrs. Holmes back?" His voice is calm, determined.

Roaman's eyes narrow.

"They haven't got that far yet. They want our assurances that no one will come down that road. He said to expect his call in another thirty minutes."

"Mycroft - do you believe them?"

Mycroft's voice is dry to the extreme. "What do you think, John?"

"Probably the same thing, I imagine. There's no way in hell they're going to let your Mother go, once they've got Sherlock and me. She obviously isn't blindfolded. If she's seen Sherlock, then she's also seen them. She can recognize them."

"The thought had occurred, John." Mycroft's voice is deadly calm.

John frowns. "Mycroft, this doesn't make sense."

"What doesn't?"

"Why me? I'm, no one, basically. Moriarty's dead. He can no longer get to Sherlock through me. So, I repeat. Why me?"

More silence. John can hear Mycroft tapping on his mobile with a fingertip.

"I thought about that, John, before I called. I don't really know the answer. And, John?"

"Yes?"

"I _hate_ not knowing the answer."

"Family trait," John says. He sighs, rubs his face with one hand. He can feel the faintest of tremors race through his body.

Mycroft's voice, when it comes, is calm, nearly resigned. "I thought, it might have something to do with the destruction of the flat, that the incidents are all linked, and the more I think about it, the more I'm convinced I'm correct."

"What destruction of what flat, Mycroft?" John goes on high alert and raises his head to look into Agent Roaman's hazel eyes.

Silence.

"John – I would have thought that Sherlock, by now—"

"What destruction? What flat? Baker Street? Mycroft?" A dull roaring sound threatens to eclipse John's hearing.

Heavy sigh. "John, Sherlock undoubtedly made some decisions that he felt were for the best, given your condition. And may I say, you sound splendid, John, really."

"Mycroft."

John lowers Sherlock's mobile phone, as it cannot give him the answers he so desperately needs. He takes several deep breathes. When he's calm, he lifts the phone to his ear again.

Sherlock has told John that there are times he can hear the doctor in his head.

John now experiences the same odd feeling. He can, nearly, hear Sherlock in his head: "Concentrate on what's important. Leave the unimportant for another day."

John frowns. And lets it go.

"Mycroft, just- let it go until we get them back safe."

"Yes, John. Although I want to reassure you that the problem has been taken care of. Everything has been replaced, repaired or reno —"

"Let it go, Mycroft. Let him tell me himself. Unless - "John swallows suddenly. "Mycroft, my sister, Harry and Mrs. Hudson –"

"Both safe, John, in safe locations, under heavy guard. And have been for several weeks."

John runs a hand through his hair. He turns to consider the yellow Harley again. "All right, Mycroft. Since there's nothing I can do about it at the moment." He thinks for a moment. "Mycroft, how soon before you get their next call?"

"No assurances, John. "

"Mycroft – I must be getting old. I forgot to even ask. How many of 'them' are we talking about?"

Dead silence.

"Mycroft?"

"John, I cannot be certain. I believe there are three. I also believe that I know or can guess the identity of one of the kidnappers."

"Okay and why do you think there are three?"

Mycroft sighs. "Mummy again. She couldn't come out and say but she did use a sort of – code - as it were."

"Code?"

"Yes, John. During our last conversation, she said, 'This is the third time I've told you, Mycroft, that Sherlock is not feeling well.'"

John listens. "And?" he prompts.

"We've only spoken twice, John."

John thinks. "It makes sense. Mycroft, you said you might know the identity of one—"

"Michael Billings. A Lieutenant Michael Billings. Ring any bells?"

John frowns. "No. Should it?"

"John, the man was at your funeral. Claimed he knew you. That you saved a friend of his in Afghanistan."

"Never heard the name before now, Mycroft."

"All right, John. But this is not getting us any closer to rescuing Sherlock. I'm worried about both of them, John."

John nods once, although he knows the older man cannot see him. "It's getting late, Mycroft. And if Sherlock has a concussion –"

"What are you thinking, Doctor Watson?"

John purses his lips and turns back to frown at Agent Roaman.

"Give me a few. I thought I knew but now … I need some time, Mycroft. Not much."

"Don't take too long, John. They'll be calling back in less than twenty-five minutes now. I can't go in there with any of my men. They have someone guarding Mummy; they have a gun to her head. We might be able to take them down or out. But we would undoubtedly get her killed in the bargain. And I must assuredly cannot call in the locals."

"Lestrade," John says. "No, you're right."

"The Detective Inspector, if this even comes under his jurisdiction, which I doubt, would undoubtedly insist on playing his hand. If not Lestrade, then most assuredly the Commissioner. And that would be disastrous for Mummy and —"

"Sherlock," John says quietly.

_Sherlock… Sherlock_ _…_

"I know, Mycroft. I've gone over it. And over it." John looks at the two guns that Agent Roaman is holding. "Mycroft, do you—"

Roaman glances at his mobile, walks quickly to the alarm box and punches in the code. He looks at John. "Sir – Agent Williams."

The garage door opens. And Don Williams pulls the Rover in at a fast rate of speed and brings it to a dead stop, two feet short of John's booted feet.

"Mycroft, hold on a minute." He holds the phone down to his side as Don Williams gets out of the Rover. He looks at John, nods once, then walks up in front of him and Roaman.

"They got Jake out, Sir."

John nods, "Good." And holds up the phone, "Your boss."

Williams takes the phone. "Sir? Williams. They got Jake – Agent Lynn out. They met up with a Life Flight that had become available, transferred Jake to a stretcher and –"

"Transferred him? I specifically asked—"

Williams just grins tiredly at the other two men. "Sir? Have you ever seen an Apache helicopter?"

"I have not had the pleasure, no, Agent Williams," Mycroft Holmes intones. "And how is any of this germane to the—"

"Because, Sir," here Don Williams winks at the other men, "an Apache is an attack helicopter."

Dead silence.

Mycroft sighs. "I realise that, Agent Williams, but –" he breaks off. "Attack helicopter. That means limited space inside and only two, possibly three, crew members, am I correct?"

"Yes, Sir, that is correct. A gunner and a pilot." Don grins. "The gunner, a Lieutenant Marsten, got Jake fastened into his seat and he sat with me in the Rover until—"

"Yes, all right, Agent Williams, thank you for the lesson in wartime aviation."

He mutters to someone beside him, but John, Roaman and Williams can clearly hear Mycroft Holmes. "Patrick is going to be insufferable about my comment regarding the medic and the stretcher, isn't he?"

Without knowing who Mycroft is speaking to, Don Williams answers him. "Yes, Sir, I'm afraid he is."

_And,_ think both Roaman and Williams, _everyone in their building is going to be insufferable when they discover that Mycroft Holmes is not as - infallible - as we all thought._

The men grin at each other.

"Gentlemen, I'm glad to hear that Agent Lynn has been taken to safety and will receive the medical attention he needs. John?"

"Yes, Mycroft, I'm here."

"John, I expect your call shortly. Please do not keep me waiting."

"No, Mycroft."

John pockets Sherlock's phone, after noting it will have to be charged soon, and watches as Don Williams walks back to the Rover. He looks at John, still grinning.

"Captain Watson? You might want to have a look."

He opens the back door to the Rover.

OooOooO

Regina Holmes squirms in her seat, then sighs and straightens her back again. Her eyes never leave her son's quiet form. Or the vicious way he is restrained. Or the blood that still drips down the side of his head. Or the way Sherlock mutters and attempts to move, only to be stopped by the wire barbs that cut into his wrists and ankles. She looks at Sherlock and then looks up at her two captors. The third man, the one they call Anders, seems to constantly wander off by himself. Which makes her more at ease as she does not like the way the man's eyes look. They appear wild, crazed.

She looks up from her son's quiet form as the one called Glenn comes back into the clearing. This individual appears to be the only sensible one here. She clears her throat. Glenn looks at her.

"My son requires medical attention. Immediate medical attention."

She glances to her side to where Jenkins lies on his overcoat, which has been spread on the ground. The old man is still unconscious but she can see he is breathing.

"And I do not know which of you – _cowardly imbeciles_ – chose to shoot at a 70-year-old man, but Mr. Jenkins, too, requires immediate medical attention."

She lifts her chin and regards Glenn, who looks at her, his eyes wide with quiet amazement. "If you would be so kind," she says.

Glenn just stares back at her.

OooOooO

John and Agents Enders, Roaman and Williams sort through the weapons in the boxes.

John lifts an item out of the larger box and turns it over in his hand. He looks up at the three men who stand in a semi-circle around him.

"Anyone care to fill me in on this little item? I don't recognize it."

Don Williams reaches to take the small canister out of John's hands. "Sir, frankly, I'm amazed that they gave us one of these." He holds the tiny canister up so all can see it. Then he closes his fingers over it. The canister fits in the palm of his hand. "This is the newest version of the good old flash bang. Only—"

John nods. "Only what?"

Don smiles. "Only when you drop this beauty, everyone, and I mean every living being within a fifty foot radius, goes temporarily deaf, blind, and unconscious. And with no permanent or lasting effects."

He turns the tiny canister over in his hand, then holds it out to John. "Could be useful," he says.

John looks at the canister in the palm of his hand. "Sherlock is injured. Would – ?"

Don shakes his head. "I have no way of knowing, Sir."

Everyone is silent. Then, John lifts his head. "Someone has to go in there; there's no other way," he says quietly.

Enders looks at him. "Sir. No, Sir."

Don Williams frowns. "Sir, there is no way they **won't** take you hostage."

John nods. "I'm counting on it."

Mycroft's men – John's men now – all look at him.

John just shakes his head. "Listen up."

He outlines his plan. The three agents look at each other, then at John. Finally, Enders says curtly, "It's a risk, Sir. A huge one, given Mr. Holmes' probable physical condition."

"Not as big a risk as letting him be killed outright, Rob," John says quietly, "which if they were going to do, they would have done by now. No. They have a plan. And that plan calls for both me and Sherlock to be taken hostage."

He shakes his head. "At the moment, it's all we've got. And it's getting late, gentlemen, I have no intention of leaving the two of them out there, come nightfall, while these bastards get their act together. The nights are too cool. Mrs. Holmes, and particularly Sherlock, might not survive it. I have no way of knowing what their intentions are. Or how badly Sherlock is hurt. The longer they have them in their possession, the greater the risk to the hostages. We all know that."

John looks at the three agents in turn.

Enders nods. "Textbook. But sir, you will be affected, as well and –"

"There's no way around that, Rob. I am counting on the three of you to get the rest of us out of there, the faster, the better.

Enders regards him. "Sir, I should be the one to go in."

"Are you also a medical doctor, Rob, or have I missed something here?" John says, his dark blue eyes boring into Enders' skull.

"No, Sir, I'm not."

"Well, Sherlock needs one and he needs one fast. They specifically told your boss that they want me and until they have me, they refuse to make the exchange."

He purses his lips, thinking. "Besides, Sherlock went in and they immediately took him hostage."

He looks at the three of them. "The element of surprise is the only thing we've got going for us at the moment." He hands the canister to Agent Enders.

John Watson crosses his arms over his chest and looks with determination at the three men now in his command. "I'm not letting the sun go down on this, gentlemen. We are going to take care of this problem, _now_."

Dead silence.

John nods again. "Okay, then. Unless someone has any better ideas, I'm calling Mycroft to set up the exchange."

He glances from Enders to Agent Roaman to Don Williams. Then he grins, that quick grin that Sherlock so loves. "Don, looks like this is your chance to impersonate a renegade exArmy Doctor and Captain."

Don Williams, who is only three inches taller than John Watson and has the same general coloring, just sighs.

"Yes, Sir," he says.

OooOooO

Mycroft Holmes seems to have suddenly gone hoarse. He certainly has trouble speaking for a moment. He clears his throat and tries again.

"John, I don't want to lose all of –"

"Mycroft, if this works, you aren't going to lose any of us," John assures him. "We have no other choice, Mycroft. And I'm sorry. Truly sorry. I can't even imagine how this is affecting you personally."

John holds the mobile to his ear, while he looks at the brilliant paint on the Harley-Davidson.

"John – all of you, you as well, John, are my family. If –"

"No 'if's' Mycroft. This is how we have to do it. Look," John wrests his attention away from the Harley and looks down at his boots. "Look, Mycroft, we've been over and over this. There is no other way. If we send in an armored van, she's dead. And Sherlock immediately after. If we pour men in there, they're dead. One man stands guard directly behind her with a gun to her head. That's what she told you. There **is** no other way. I have to do this."

_Besides, if Sherlock dies, what do you expect me to do with the rest of my life?_ He pushes the horrid thought away and concentrates on the matter at hand.

"All right, John. I have to wait for his call. I cannot call him. We'll go with your plan."

"We'll get ready and wait for your call then," John says. "And - Mycroft?"

"Yes, John?" His voice sounds tired beyond belief, John thinks.

"Mycroft, we'll do everything in our power to get them out."

"I know that, John. No need for assurances."

There is a small pause. "All right," John says. "Later, then."

"Later, John."

John hangs up, drops Sherlock's phone in his pocket. And looks at the opposite wall.

Mycroft hangs up and stands at the window.  He looks out at what has turned out to be a beautiful day. The clouds have scattered and the afternoon sun is brilliant.

Mycroft sees none of it.

OooOooO

At one end of the large dining table, three men sit with but a single purpose.

Three Sig Sauers, three Walther PPKs, one Makarov and one Browning lay spread out in front of them.

John Watson picks up the Browning, dismantles it, cleans and oils the parts, then slides them back together again. He checks the sliding mechanism, then slips the clip in, thumbs on the safety. He works quickly and methodically. When he's done, he lays the Browning in front and to the left of him. Reaches for one of the Sigs.

Enders picks up one of the Sig Sauers, gives it the same attention as John just gave the Browning.

Agent Roaman pulls a Sig and one of the PPK's to him, quickly disassembles each weapon, cleans, oils it, checks the mechanism, loads the clips. When he has finished with the first Sig, he slides it across to John, who glances at it, nods once, then places it to his left alongside the Browning.

Williams comes into the room and raises an eyebrow at the progress they have made. He is dressed exactly as John Watson is dressed. Jeans, dark tee, boots, jacket and one shining dog tag around his neck. He has combed his hair forward to more closely resemble John's appearance. He pulls out another chair, lays out two more weapons and begins work on them.

None of the four men speak to each other.

The three agents look at John occasionally, then at each other, back to the weapons in their hands.

Lori Hansen and Maggie Oakton prepare sandwiches and coffee at the buffet along the wall.

Lori pours cups of coffee, sets them out on the carved buffet with sugar and creamer. She looks in vain for sweetener, finally decides the Holmes matron would probably be aghast at something in tiny 'pink', 'yellow' or 'blue' sacks taking up residence in her sugar bowl. She stops looking.

Maggie sets out plates of sandwiches, covered over with paper napkins next to the coffee. Neither woman speaks. Nor do they interfere with what the men are doing. Neither one of them knows a damned thing about weapons - although Lori has some familiarity with them - but they know their lives may depend on the swift, sure movements of the four men who sit at the other end of the large table.

John has Sherlock's mobile phone on a flash charger in front of him. So far, there have been no calls, no texts. He keeps checking.

When the last of the weapons is prepared and loaded, the man stop, drink the coffee and eat the sandwiches. John checks the mobile again, frowns. His watch alarm suddenly goes off.

Galen Dennison looks up from his notes, and nods once at John. Without a word, John rises and accompanies Galen out of the room into the outer hallway. John comes back in a minute, flexes his arm once, then reseats himself and pulls a notebook toward him. He checks his notes, then unfolds a much-creased, two-page diagram, of the manor and surrounding grounds. He studies it carefully.

Enders glances over his shoulder, nods once, then returns his attention to his weapons.

Sometime during these proceedings, John lowers his head to his right hand and shuts his eyes for a few minutes. The other men keep quietly working, as do the women who are now packing meals into soft-sided coolers. They fill thermoses with coffee – and hot tea – and zip up the containers, then set them aside. One by one, each of the three agents and the two women glance at John, who finally sighs, lifts his head, blinks, then goes back to his diagram.

The silence is companionable, comforting. None of them miss speech. And none of them want to be the one to break the silence.

Galen Dennison finishes his notes on John, then snags a sandwich and cup of coffee and goes to sit by the women and begins to talk quietly with Maggie Oakton and with Lori. He looks at John, who continues to work in silence on his diagram. Then nods to himself and goes back to his sandwich.

Lori wonders if the little ginger cat is all right, then realizes they have far worse problems. She sighs when she remembers, once again, that she has told Joe nothing about what is going on in the mansion. There is most definitely a row in her immediate future.

Both women murmur quietly with Galen, and finish their makeshift meals. Lori stands and cleans up the small mess, doing the best she can without having a kitchen with running water. She then goes through the medical supplies again, sorts and then resorts them once more. She lays out a few items that John has requested. From time to time, Lori looks up at John Watson's profile, bites her lip, then goes back to what she is doing.

Maggie checks her purse for her asthma inhalers, drops one in her pocket in case they have to vacate the mansion. She goes back to working on her notes, alongside Galen. From time to time, she glances at Galen or he lifts his head to look at her. They smile at each other.

Lori grins to herself each time she notices this, then returns to going over the items that John needs. She glances at John Watson one last time, then comes to a decision. She rummages through the medical supplies, then opens drawers in the gorgeously carved buffet until she finds what she's looking for.

Finally, she pulls one of the chairs out to the middle of the dining room and looks straight at John Watson.

"Doctor Watson?"

John glances up at her.

Lori smiles at him. One small hand holds a comb and the other what looks like a spare table cloth.

"John, I can't stand it one more minute. Get your bloody arse over here and sit in this chair. Now," she barks.

John glances at her, then grins. He rises, walks over to Lori Hansen, looks down at her for a moment, then sits in the chair and allows her to drape the doubled and quadrupled table cloth over his shoulders.

She stands behind him with a comb and the pair of scissors she pulled from her medical kit.

"Damn straight," she says. She begins to quickly trim his shaggy hair.

OooOooO

Mycroft stands back in the shadows and watches the proceedings. His hands clench at his sides and his eyes narrow at the man who sits in the chair in front of him, confined by his wrists and ankles.

The man in the chair seems desperate. "I don't – what is it you bastards want with me?" he demands. Jackson's head shakes back and forth and his eyes open to look wildly around. Then he shuts them against the bright light.

She presses the button on the side of the unit and the small slip of paper begins its downward spiral into the basket. She watches her computer screen. And totally ignores Jackson, who sits only a few feet away from her.

Mycroft speaks up. His voice is pure venom. "Miles, we know you planted the bomb in my assistant's car."

"What about it, Holmes? Hmm? If you know so bloody much, then why –" his dark eyes open. He winces at the light. He turns his head slightly to watch the young woman, who patiently ignores him. "What about all this, Holmes? Why even bother, if you know so bloody much!"

He nearly screams at Mycroft, who remains behind him in the shadows.

"Miles. I want to know who your confederates are. I want their names. And I want you to tell me exactly –"

"I'm not telling you a bloody thing. You're so damned smart, Holmes. You figure it out!" Jackson shakes his head from side to side and sweat pours down the side of his face.

"We can stay here all day, Miles. And all night if necessary. I've no place to be."

Jackson swears. He shakes his head to dislodge the sweat that drips from every pore. He looks at his wrists, then down to his lap and back up again to the table top.

"You know what, Mycroft Holmes? You are one sick son of a bitch! And that goes for your sick little brother, too. Sherlock. God!" He can, barely, see a few of Mycroft's agents who stand well back, all of them more or less in shadow. "What a bloody name. Sherlock!" He raises his voice and nearly shouts at the ceiling. "Sherlock Holmes and bloody Doctor John Watson!"

"What about them, Miles?" Mycroft asks. His voice is deadly, deceptively so.

Miles Jackson takes a deep breath, then lets it out. He smiles grimly at no one in particular. He flexes his hands, tries to yank them out of their restraints. "Sherlock _Bloody_ Holmes. John _Bloody_ Watson."

"You'll find out, Mycroft. You'll find out. They're for it. Both of them. All of - It's all taken care of. All of it, all nicely wrapped up." He lowers his head again and his eyes close in pain and distress. Jackson flexes his wrists again.

He smiles happily, at no one in particular. Mycroft's stomach crawls. "Yes. All taken care of."

Mycroft sighs and shifts his position. "My dear, have we got anything new?"

She glances up at him. "No sir. He's repeating himself, over and over."

Mycroft nods. He hears the quiet ring of his phone and glances at his mobile. He speaks to his people in the shadows.

"I must take this. Please finish. I want his memory wiped. And I want the recording on my desk within the hour."'

He leaves them to it. He's speaking into his phone as he leaves the room.

Behind him, Mile Jackson shakes his head from side to side. He murmurs, "She's taken care of them all. She has. Just wait. Just you wait."

OooOooO

"Mycroft, for the love of—"

"Apologies, John. They took their time calling me back. They'll make the exchange."

John's voice sounds hoarse to his own ears. "How?"

"They'll allow one man, and you, to drive down to the barrier. At first, they insisted they will let Mummy just walk away by herself, once they have you. I refused. They finally agreed."

John nods, satisfied. "When?"

OooOooO

Agent Roaman finishes topping off the Harley's petrol tank, wipes his hands on a rag, then nods once at John.

"Good luck, Captain Watson. See you soon." He glances at Enders and goes back into the house.

Williams nods at both men and follows Roaman into the house.

John shrugs into the shorter leather jacket that Don Williams has lent him. It is only slightly too large for him but not long enough to impede his legs on the Harley. Don is now wearing the coat John has worn for the past two weeks. The coat that _she_ sent to him in St. Anne's.

John distributes the medical supplies Lori hands him around his person, then slides the Browning in the back waistband of his jeans, a familiar weight. He hefts the Sig, raises one eyebrow, then slips it into his front pocket. Last, he drops the rifle scope into a pocket of the jacket.

Finally, he hands his Makarov to Rob Enders, along with the ankle holster. The two men look at each other.

"We'll get all of you out, Sir," Enders says.

John nods. "I'm certain of it, Rob."

John walks over to the Harley, then hesitates. Something nags at him. A pocket knife. He does not have a pocket knife. He frowns. He glances around, then walks to the cabinet in the far corner of the garage and opens it. No knife. He rummages around in the small toolbox he finds there, presumably someone enjoys fishing as it is full of lures, sinkers, hooks and what not, and comes up with a small multitool. He turns it over in his hand. Then shrugs and tucks it into the top of one boot.

Then he straddles the Harley and nods once at Rob Enders.

Enders punches in the security code, then pushes the button to lift the door.

Starting slow, then shifting up, John aims the Harley at the back of the rolling lawns and heads off toward the East, away from the mansion, toward the next estate. He will come in behind the barrier from the far side.

And do what he needs to do.

Once he is a few more yards away from the mansion, he revs up his wedding gift from Mycroft and Mummy and roars off.

Enders lowers the garage door and punches in the security code. He listens for the rapidly receding sound of the Harley-Davidson and its rider. Then goes quickly back into the house. He wonders how long it's been since John Watson has ridden a motorcycle, then shrugs.

Presumably, it's like riding a bicycle. You just never really forget.

OooOooO

_Sherlock stops talking long enough to stare down the largest crimson apparition. It slinks off to hide behind one of the darker shadows. Good._

He sighs. Which means a deep inhalation of breath. He immediately makes a mental note. _No. More. Deep. Breaths_.

He attempts to shift his position, but a brand new set of lightning bolts intrudes and he stops moving in order to consider them as they float by his field of vision. They resemble daggers with double edges. Blood drips from their tips. He frowns.

"John, I believe I'll rest now. Just for a moment. You may carry on without me."

Sherlock stops moving. And thinking, if that is possible. He attempts to take another deep breath, realises it's a lost cause, and settles for small shallow ones.

They make him light-headed and dizzy.

_John - ? I'm not usually one to indulge in histrionics about – well, anything, really. But I do wish you would hurry with whatever it is you are doing. This is just a suggestion on my part, John, and should not be construed as criticism in any fashion. So, carry on._

_Strange. So much new data. Oh, and John? I've solved the problem of the envelope with no postmark while lying here. Presumably, you have, as well. Obvious. Only possible answer. We just need to act on it and call Mycroft and – No inherent danger implied though, but you will take care, John? All of you, in case I -_

Yes, definitely loads of new data to catalogue. If only his world hadn't turned into bright glaring agony. And he most assuredly should not move his hands or wiggle his fingers. _No. Wiggling is definitely a No. Go._

_Becoming a bit worried about my ability to play the violin, John, if the current course continues …_

_John … John … John …_

**_Sherlock!_ **

**_Sherlock?_ **

_Yes, he just needs a bit of a kip,_ _as John would say._

_Brilliant John … Wonderful John. Soldier John. And as a personal aside, not particular to these circumstances, I know you'll insist on cutting your hair, John, but please consider not doing so, as it's quite nice to lie in bed and just run my hands through –_

**_Son. I demand you open your eyes, this instant._ **

There seems to be an annoying buzzing in his head. Persistent and annoying.

As he goes under, again, Sherlock wonders, just as an exercise in idle speculation, what happened to _Doctor_ John.

Something warm and wet drips into his eyes. He finds this truly uncomfortable. Sherlock feels a scream fight to escape his throat. He questions if he should let it out?

_I might just be in trouble here, John. I thought I should mention it, in case you had nothing on at the moment …_

**_Sherlock! Sherlock -_ **

**_Oh bloody hell !_ **

Because he could really use _Doctor_ John. Right. About. Now.

**_Sherlock – Son …._ **

**_Please …_ **

"John? I am extraordinarily tired and thought that I should tell you -" Stop. Delete that. He tries again.

"John, there's the slightest chance, just the smallest one, really, that this is not going to work out well for all concerned. And, well, John, to use one of your own phrases – John Watson, it's been bloody marvelous."

He considers for a moment but the agony is now blinding in its intensity.

"I - That's all I have to say, John. At least for now. Sleeping now."

_The deep red and black apparition slowly creeps back. He knows if he opens his eyes, it will be there, staring at him. "It's not the eyes so much as the teeth,"_ Sherlock thinks _._

_Yes, he could very well do without the teeth at this time._

"John?"

_john … john …_

OooOooO

John stays well up on the lawns of the estate, dipping and rising as the ground dips and rises beneath him. It's been years, but it comes back to him in a few minutes and he actually begins to enjoy himself. The cool wind lifts the ends of his now considerably shorter hair and he begins to shiver from the cold. Still, it's exhilarating to be out and moving again.

The Harley rides like a dream, as if it were made for him and him alone. He wouldn't be surprised to find out it was, knowing Mycroft. He thinks about taking it out on the open road and opening it up, just to see what it can do.

If only Sherlock's – and Regina Holmes' – lives didn't hang in the balance.

He stays as far away from the road as he can, actually driving behind the mansion, then having to drive round landscape features, down dips in the hills, then back up the other side.

He keeps an eye on his watch as he rides and particularly at the seconds that pass on the small stopwatch feature. When he's gone far enough, he nods, then lowers his rate of speed. When he comes upon the next mansion over, he glances at it once, then turns the Harley down the long drive toward the road.

John parks the motorcycle behind clumps of bush, then begins his solitary trek back toward the barrier, coming in from the back and not from the direction that the kidnappers presumably watch. If they have done their homework, they know there is only the one other estate along this road and that no one is currently home, the owner's being out of the country.

John moves quickly and quietly, calling upon skills he has not had to use in years. He glances at his stopwatch feature, then finally presses the button to stop and silence the mechanism. He pulls out Sherlock's mobile phone and finds the GPS ap with its preset coordinates. He nods and begins his mile-long trek back toward the barrier – the barrier sighted from the air by the pilot of the Apache helicopter - the coordinates of which were passed on to Mycroft Holmes – and then to his agents and to John.

He has parked the Harley far enough back that the sound of its motor will not be heard but close enough that he can walk to the barrier in time if he is quick enough about it. By the time he arrives, his legs shake a little, but at the same time, he feels energized from the prolonged exercise in the cool air.

Finally, he stops a few dozen yards short of what appears to be a clearing, crouches down to remain hidden and then lifts the rifle scope to his eyes. He holds the scope with one hand and keeps the other on Sherlock's mobile, thumb poised over the text screen. He breathes through his mouth to calm his heartbeat. The scene springs into sharp focus, and he is only marginally startled when he can clearly see Regina Holmes where she sits on what appears to be an ammo box. Her hands appear to be bound with nylon rope. He nods. She is conscious and staring down at someone on the ground in front of her.

He lowers the scope slightly. _Sherlock._ The detective's back is to John and he lies on the ground. Obviously his hands are bound in front of him. From the extreme angle of his body and the way his head slumps over, John surmises that Sherlock is asleep – or unconscious – OR -

His heart skips a beat, and his vision temporarily blurs, but then John sees the slight movement as Sherlock's head shifts to the side. Unconscious, yes, but he lives. John lets go of a breath he didn't know he was holding and shuts his eyes for a second. Then he forces them open, and angrily wipes one sleeve over the tears, the stupid tears that want to fall even now.

He shifts the scope. There seems to be another man lying on the ground to the side and slightly back from Mrs. Holmes. His face is clearly the face of an older man. This must be Jenkins, her chauffeur and all around dogs body. Mycroft told him that Jenkins has been with the Holmes family since "I believe the term is, 'Since dirt was brown,' John."

John realises Jenkins must be alive, else they would not have tied his hands. He uses the scope to get a good idea of the layout of the clearing, but can only see half of it. He turns the scope slightly to focus again on Sherlock's quiet form.

" _He's alive, you idiot. Concentrate on that."_

Now he moves the scope in a semi-circle and sees one man, who crouches in front of a bipod. He seems to peer through the scope of a rifle. John thinks it's an M89, one of the older, more reliable pieces, but cannot be certain.

John watches as man number one turns his head to talk to another man, man number two. John can only see his feet and legs, as the man stands back, just in the shadow of the trees and his upper body is obscured. A childhood memory comes back to John, a book that Harry read to him when he was little, and he mentally refers to the men as Thing One and Thing Two.

He wonders where Thing Three has got to.

Suddenly, a slight shift in the air tells John he's in trouble. Entirely expected, but trouble nonetheless.

"Well, if it isn't a little lamb, come to slaughter," the voice drawls behind him.

John doesn't bother trying to whirl and get the upper hand. He knows it won't work. His thumb quickly presses the SEND key on the text screen and he allows the phone to slide down his jeans, then fall to the wet leaves on the ground under his boots.

John sighs dramatically, drops the scope also, and slowly holds his hands out to the side as he rises to his feet.

OooOooO

"Ready?" Enders voice is quiet. He sits at the wheel of the Rover. Don Williams sits next to him in the passenger seat.

Don nods. "Ready."

"Good." Enders starts the engine and they begin the long ride down the drive.

OooOooO

John moves slowly into the clearing, the man's Sig (" _Today's_ w _eapon of choice_ ," thinks John) poking him in the spine. " _Amateurs,"_ thinks John. " _He should stand back a little, get both me and Regina in his sights."_

Regina Holmes looks up at their approach; her cool gray eyes widen. To her credit, she says nothing and makes no movements; in effect, does not give him away. Which is a good thing, because John is still not certain if this murdering bastard even knows who he is.

"Okay, stop right there," the man says. He moves back a bit and around John to where he stands, not in front of him but nearly in front and to the side. John can still clearly see Regina – and Sherlock. Beyond Mrs. Holmes, he sees the figure of the older man, Jenkins, the chauffeur, as he lies on the ground. Neither of the men on the ground appear to be moving.

He keeps his hands to the side and in the air, as told. The man has already found and taken the Sig in his front pocket. It is only a matter of a few minutes before he finds the Browning, too. But John expects this. This is not why he is here. He holds his hands up and out and deliberately makes eye contact with Regina Holmes. He very slowly rakes his eyes down her form, then over the ground and along Sherlocks' quiet form. She does not appear to be injured, unless you can call mad as hell, no. No. Make that affronted as hell. If you can call that an injury, then Regina Holmes is very injured indeed. He can't tell anything about Sherlock's condition from where he stands. He looks back at Regina.

Without taking his eyes or his gun off John, the man addresses his comments to Regina. "Where is everyone?"

She regards the kidnapper with pursed lips.

"If you cannot keep accurate 'tabs' I believe the term is on your own people, why would you expect me to do so?" she asks with quiet derision.

" _Cock block_! _One for you Regina_ ," John, almost, smiles fondly at her. He says nothing but continues to look into her eyes, her grey eyes that so remind him of Sherlock's. He looks down at Sherlock, then back up at her, without moving his head. Her eyes widen very slowly and then John sees it. A tiny imperceptible nod. So small, he might have imagined it.

_He's still alive_. A sudden warmth floods his being. **_Sherlock !_**

"You know, I've had just about enough of you lady," the man growls. He jabs the Sig in the air toward John. "Okay, over there, where I can keep an eye on all of you."

John makes no sudden movements. Somewhere ahead and to the left of them, he thinks he can hear a car. He moves closer to Regina – and to Sherlock.

"Okay, right there. Now sit." The man barks.

John deliberately takes two more small steps, then prepares to follow his orders.

"I didn't tell you to get any closer. Sit!"

John sinks slowly to the ground. He would sit cross-legged, but the recent injury to his thigh still stings. He settles for bending one leg in and leaving his wounded leg bent but extended in front of him. He looks at the boot that holds the multi-tool, with its small foldout knife.

Sherlock is now more or less directly in front of him, slightly curled in on himself. John can see his face, the sheen of sweat and under that, the faint flush that means possible fever. His eyes travel down Sherlock's form, assessing.

Then he comes to his love's hands – and what binds them.

A dull roar fills John's senses when he sees the loops of barbed wire that encircle Sherlock's wrists. He is only a few feet away and he can clearly see where they have bit into the pale flesh of his lover’s wrists. The wires must have been shining at one time but they now appear to be covered in Sherlock's blood.

John's eyes widen, then narrow. He looks from Sherlock's quiet figure up to Regina, who sits to his left on the ammo box, slightly elevated above him. She looks directly into his dark blue eyes. Her eyes beg the question.

" _I don't know – yet,"_ John thinks at her.

He has kept his hands more or less in the air but Thing Three now finishes rummaging around in his pockets, pulls out several plastic zip ties.

"Found these on that toff over there. Knew they'd come in handy."

He comes to stand in front of John and nearly blocks John's view of Sherlock. But he does not try to bind John at this time. He just stands there, with the Sig pointed at John's head.

"The others are probably meeting –" he breaks off and considers John again.

"I don't know who you are but I know you've come for that lot over at that fancy house. How many more of you out here?" he jerks his heads toward the woods behind them.

John stops looking at Sherlock and slowly raises his gaze to that of Thing Three's. He still holds his hands out to his side.

He smiles. "If you can't keep tabs on the people you're after, how do you expect me to?"

Behind him, he hears Regina's clothing as she moves slightly.

The man's eyes narrow. "Right," he says. And he steps forward and to the side and aims a deliberate kick at John's ribs. Time slows down for John. He looks at the foot in its dirty boot that is far too close to his healing ribs.

" _Oh Christ, not again,"_ John thinks. He also thinks, _Good_.

And as the man's foot begins to connect with John Watson's much abused ribs, he grabs the ankle and pulls – and twists. Thing Three goes down, heavily. And John is on him.

"You bastard!" Thing Three spits the words out but it isn't even the beginnings of a fight.

John has been wounded, sick, and confined to a bed half of his time over these last few weeks. That is the other John. But _this_ John not only has Galen Dennison's injections running through his veins, the injections that serve to make John incredibly irritated with all and sundry, but he also has the added impetus of knowing that the love of his life lies, badly injured and in need of immediate attention, just a few feet away from him.

Not to mention that it's always good to make points with your future mother-in-law whenever and wherever possible.

John doubles up his fist and hits the man right across the jaw with all of his strength, even as Thing Three attempts to bring the Sig up and around. Weeks of pent up frustration and hours of overwhelming anger are behind that fist. Thing Three's eyes roll up in his head and he lies still.

_Good._

John grabs the Sig and slips it into the front of his waistband, then bends to drag the temporarily unconscious kidnapper, Thing Three, as John thinks of him, to the back of the clearing and away from his family. He grabs some of the zip ties that have fallen to the ground and secures Three's wrists behind him, then quickly repeats his actions on the ankles. Finally, he uses the longest of the ties to wrap around the man's thighs. John is not certain how long any of these will hold.

He leaves the man tied up on the ground and rushes over to Regina Holmes. As he bends over to untie her hands, he can hear the unmistakable sound of feet coming toward them.

Temporarily ignoring Sherlock, who appears to be slowly bleeding to death on the ground beside him, John says as quietly as possible to his future Mum-in-law, "Drop to the ground when they all come back and cover your ears. Keep your eyes as tightly shut as possible. This might make you a little sick."

Then he's away from her and bending over Jenkins _. Hurry, you fool ... Sherlock !_

"Yes, John," is all she says. Her hands are free - " _At last!"_ \- and she attempts to rub some circulation back into her wrist. She glances at Sherlock, but then the others are on them. She looks at the ground in front of her, prepares to drop _. Presumably there will be some sort of signal?_

_But what about Sherlock?_ She frowns at her unconscious son.

John quickly assesses the chauffeur's condition, " _Unconscious, bleeding, not badly hurt, bullet grazed side of neck, he'll live,"_ then looks up as they all come into the clearing.

What John Watson remembers of the following few minutes is this: As Rob Enders and Don Williams come into the clearing, their hands held up and out to the side, they are followed by two other men. John instantly recognises the military bearing, the inherent cockiness of the man – Thing One – who walks behind and to the side of the two agents. His entire being screams military. But John does not recognise the man himself.

Thing One holds a gun steadily trained on the two men in front of him, Enders and Williams.

John barely gets a good look at the man who walks directly behind them; all he can see is the tip of what must be a rifle. " _Thing_ _Two,"_ John thinks.

As they come into the clearing, John's hands are still on Jenkins' quiet form.

"What's all this?" Thing One says. He looks from John, crouched now over the old man's body, then to the hostages who stand in front of him, particularly to Don Williams who patiently waits for the light to dawn.

Thing One frowns. He glances back at John and his eyes widen.

He looks around for his missing man, but doesn't see him.

"Christ! It's Watson!"

Agents Enders and Williams stand with their hands in the air. They make no sudden movements.

Then Agent Roaman steps from the woods to their far side. The kidnapper – Thing Two - who stands behind his men, steps out, and John can now see the rifle he holds in his hands.

"Bloody hell!" Thing Two says.

And all John ever recalls after that is Agent Roaman tossing the small canister in the air between all of them. It tumbles in a high arc. At the same time, Roaman disappears from John's immediate sight. Thing Two's rifle swings up and around. Thing One shouts something and drops to the ground. The canister seems to John to be suspended in air as it tumbles.

Suspended in air along with time. Which has apparently stopped.

_Sherlock!_ But there's no time left. Microseconds. John thinks, presumably, that Sherlock, even injured, will survive this. John decides he has a better chance than Jenkins.

His decision made, John Watson drops to cover Jenkins' body with his own and moves to cover the aged man's ears with his warm hands. He shuts his eyes and presses his face into the back of Jenkin's shirt.

" _Regina!"_ he screams in his head.

Time moves forward. The canister drops. John's world falls away in a bright flash. And he falls into a brilliantly lit limbo of at first, a dead silence and a few moments later, a terrible ringing in his ears.

OooOooO

Hours, days, weeks later, John bends over his love's quiet form.

"Do you trust me, Sherlock?" His voice is a quiet, desperate whisper in Sherlock's ear. The detective’s hearing is not entirely back and John is careful to speak directly into his ear.

Sherlock's tone is wry. "John."

"Then shut your eyes. And take slow breaths. Just rest, while I free you."

Sherlock nods, a tiny movement. He frowns at the pain in his skull. His eyes close. John looks at him for a second, then shakes his head. "Concentrate, Watson," he tells himself.

He bends over Sherlock's feet, and prepares to use the multitool to carefully snip through the single layer of barbed wire that binds them together. He makes a cut every inch, then carefully, slowly uses the tip of the tool to pull the cruel barbs from around the slender ankles. He winces when some of the silk comes away with the barbs. _At least it isn't all Sherlock's skin_ , he thinks, thankful for small favors. When done, he uses the tool to pick up the bits of wire in his gloved hands, then tosses them into the open ammo box.

He gently pulls the socks, ruined now, away from Sherlock's skin and inspects the punctures. "They'll have to be disinfected," he says. "We'll take care of that shortly."

"All right, John," Sherlock says. Regina watches the interaction of the two men quietly. She kneels next to her son, and does her best with the gauze pads and small tube of ointment that John has pulled from his pockets. She affixes several fresh pads against the wound in the back of Sherlock's head and presses down very slightly, as John has told her.

Regina sits back on her heels and looks at her youngest son. She looks from his white face, shiny with sweat, to John Watson's open tired face. She looks at John's frown lines, at his blonde hair with its premature white strands, at how his bright head appears brilliant gold in the sunlight, and she smiles gently. She knows there is nothing she can do to help, so she remains silent and makes no useless protestations of assistance.

Regina turns her gaze upon Sherlock and considers her son's face with its startlingly beautiful angles and planes, his pale skin, his dark curls, the way he deliberately unclenches his hands so John can pull the barbed wire from his flesh. She compares it to her mental picture of Sherlock as a small boy, with his riotous curls and eager grin, so anxious to please, so eager to learn, running all over their estate, climbing trees, scrambling up hill and down dale and so very much in love with his beloved older brother that he unhesitatingly follows him everywhere.

Her vision blurs.

John bends over Sherlock's body, and notes that he shakes slightly. _"Idiot, he's cold and in shoc_ k."

John hurriedly removes his jacket and hands it to Regina, who tucks it around her son's body.

"Okay. One down, one more to go. Breathe, Sherlock. And keep your eyes closed."

Sherlock takes a small breath. He smiles grimly but does not open his crystalline eyes. John brushes a faint kiss against his love's ear, irregardless of Regina Holmes' unwavering gaze, then takes a breath to steady his hands. He begins work on the double strands of wire that bind Sherlock's wrists. He makes the first snip, and the first of the long barbs pulls loose from Sherlock's skin. The detective hisses, but otherwise makes no movement. John winces, then carefully starts on the next bit of wire.

It takes eight minutes to make all the necessary cuts, the longest eight minutes of John's life. When all the wire has been cut through, he uses the tip of the tool to slowly and carefully begin to pull the sharp triangular barbs from Sherlock's wrists.

"Nearly there, Love," he whispers, his breath warm against Sherlock's neck. Sherlock sighs. He tries to keep his hands loose. The pounding in his head worsens. He wonders if he can make it through this without vomiting on the ground.

"One gone," John says. "Two gone."

He pulls the next barb out, careful to pull it straight out so no part of the cruel metal is left in the pale wrists under his hands. John feels Sherlock's body tremble slightly as he pulls the wire out from skin and muscle, damaging nerve endings and opening veins. At the sight of the swollen wrists and hands, he winces. _Will Sherlock still be able to play the violin?_ , he wonders. At the hesitant thought, a mist threatens to blur his vision and he momentarily pauses to regain control over his thoughts and hands.

John concentrates on removing the pieces of metal, one by one, and deliberately does not think on what he intends to do to the bastards who did this.

He pulls the wire using the very tip of the tool, then sighs when he realises he is nearly done. "Three more, love," he says quietly. Sherlock nods slightly but does not answer him.

John frowns. He considers one of the barbs, nearly an inch of sharp steel, that has burrowed straight into Sherlock's wrist, and punctured small veins, but not the radial and for that, John is thankful. He pulls the piece of wire steadily from the punctured skin, then tosses it into the box. "Two more, Sherlock," he says.

Sherlock does not answer him. John glances up from what he is doing at Regina. He looks at the path of blood that Regina is attempting to keep at bay, sees where it has steadily dripped down the detective's pale face from the wound on his head. He looks down at the last two barbs, then slowly, expertly pulls first the one, then the final barb from the detective’s wrists.

Blood wells up and pours down from the myriad puncture wounds. It's the last two punctures that John is most worried about. He quickly tosses the last of the sharp wire, gone crimson now with Sherlock's blood, into the box. Then he picks up the bits of gauze and begins to stem the flow of blood. Regina hands him the tube of disinfectant.

"Sherlock? You can open your eyes now." John says quietly.

Sherlock does not answer him. His chest rises and falls, but John realises he has, again, lost consciousness.

He looks up from Sherlock to Regina Holmes. She frowns at John.

Under his steady hands, Sherlock Holmes begins to stir – and to awaken.

OooOooO

The three men stand there, their hands bound behind them, in a semi-circle in the clearing.

John looks from Sherlock and his mother, to the three men who have caused so much heartache and pain and his eyes narrow. Sherlock sits on the same ammo box that has been Regina's perch for so many hours. He is very pale and small tremors occasionally shake his body. Around his shoulders, he wears John's jacket. White bandages, now stained with pink, cover his wrists and ankles and the back of his head. His vision is still slightly blurred. But his eyes never leave John Watson's form. His mother stands behind him, one slim hand on his shoulder.

For some reason, Sherlock does not seem to mind this incredibly personal gesture from his maternal – _Stop. Delete that. Substitute: His mother._ He keeps his gaze on John.

Agents Williams and Roaman stand behind Captain John Watson, one on each side of him, their weapons drawn and aimed at the three. Their hands do not waiver as John looks at the kidnappers, his head cocked to one side.

Rob Enders goes to the mansion to collect Lori Hansen and Dr. Galen Dennison and to bring more medical supplies to the clearing. He then drives one of the cars back to the mansion to call Mycroft and arrange for the kidnappers to be picked up. And to request an ambulance. Sherlock insists he does not need an ambulance and refuses to go if one does show up. John assures him that he will most definitely go to hospital. And fast, too.

Regina gives Sherlock's shoulder another small squeeze, then steps back to kneel on the ground next to Jenkins, who lies on a blanket, while Lori Hansen and Galen Dennison tend to him.

John pulls the Browning from his back waistband, ejects the one clip, considers it thoughtfully, then reinserts it and rams it home. The sound is loud in the late afternoon silence. He hands the Browning to his left and back to Agent Roaman, who takes it unhesitatingly from John's hands.

John pulls the Sig from his waistband, Jake Lynn's weapon. He thumbs off the safety, then thumbs it back on. He nods.

The sound of the safety being taken off a Sig Sauer is unmistakeable, if you know about that type of thing. Billings knows. And, as if he needed a tiny clue –

John levels the Sig at Billing's eyes.

Mick raises an eyebrow and attempts to take a step back.

"Before I blow your fucking brains out the back of your sorry head, you want to tell me what the shite is going on here?" he demands.

Mick's eyes widen as he stares down the level of the Sig Sauer.

Ronald Adair has, obviously, got just a few things wrong. Because if John Watson is, nearly, a dead man, and if this is how the former Captain in the RAMC acts when he's half dead, well, Mick sure as hell doesn't want to meet up with Watson when he's feeling _better._

He reminds himself to punch Adair's lights out, if he survives the next five minutes, that is. Which isn't looking likely at this point.

He swallows. "What the hell do you think is going on here?" he growls. But it sounds weak to his own ears. "We had our orders. And that's all you're getting out of me."

It is not, of course, an answer. And John knows it. He doesn't expect to hear anything else, however.

At Billings' words of bravado, John nods. He hands the Sig backwards, this time to his right, and Don Williams moves to take this weapon, too, from John's steady hands.

John stands there, his fists clench and unclench against his side, and he looks at the three kidnappers.

" _First things first,"_ he thinks.

"Which one of you bastards laid hands on my future mother-in-law?" he asks.

Dead silence. None of the three men glance at each other.

Without turning his head, John asks in a voice that carries to those behind and to his side. "Regina, which one of these pieces of slime put their hands on you?"

At the use of his mother's given name, Sherlock's eyes widen.

Shocked silence. The three men, Billings, Glenn and Anders, look around at each other and Anders licks his lips. John's gaze never leaves the three.

"Regina?" he asks.

He hears the Holmes matron stir as she looks up from Jenkins, whose head is now in her lap. Lori bathes his face with a wet cloth and Galen tends to his neck wound. Sherlock continues to sit on the box. He looks from his mother's quiet gaze, then turns his head to look at the three kidnappers. An appreciative light is in his eyes. He then considers John Watson's quiet figure.

"John –"

"Regina – which one?" John's voice brooks no argument.

She says with determination, "The red head, on the end."

John nods. He begins to slowly pull his gloves off. His eyes never leave the three men in front of him.

"Sherlock – which one is responsible for your head wound?"

"The same, John," Sherlock says quietly. He is beginning, almost, to enjoy the discomfiture of the three bastards who now appear increasingly nervous.

The red head, Anders, glances around at the other two, who take a hesitant step away from him, their hands still bound behind them. His eyes go wide. "You utter bastards !"

John removes the second glove, then stuffs both in a pocket. When he speaks, his voice is deceptively calm.

Sherlock could warn them about that tone of voice, if he cared to.

"I don't expect the cowardly bastard responsible for shooting a 70-year-old, unarmed man to admit to it," John says, his eyes never leave the three. Again, Glenn and Billings hesitatingly glance at Anders.

John nods, satisfied.

"Roaman?"

"Sir. Yes, Sir." Agent Roaman moves behind Anders, his pocket knife in his hand. There is a quick movement behind him and Anders' eyes widen even more, as he wonders if he is about to be knifed in the back. Roaman stands back. His hands raise the Sig again and he keeps it trained steadily on Anders.

Anders brings his hands around and begins to rub his wrists. His wide gaze does not leave John Watson's.

John notes his pupils no longer appear to be blown. Whatever the bastard is taking, it has apparently worn off.

John nods. "Right," he says.

Before Anders can react, John's fist has impacted with the man's chin. And Anders finds himself on the ground, one shaking hand comes up to rub at his face. "You fucking broke my jaw!" he groans.

"Not yet," John says. He steps forward, bends and yanks Anders up by his shirt collar. There is another loud smack and Anders goes down again - he nearly screams in agony. He bends over and begins to cough, to retch and then to choke on his own vomit. Spittle mixed with blood pours from the corners of his mouth. His eyes are wild, crazed. He stares murder at John Watson, who just placidly looks back at him.

John nods. "Now," he says, "it's broken."

He holds out his right hand, again without turning around, and Williams places the Sig back in his grasp.

"That is for laying hands on my mother-in-law," he says with determination. He steps back another foot to where he is nearly level with Mycroft's men. "And for trying to kill my boyfriend."

Regina Holmes' eyes go wide and she glances from the man on the ground to John Watson, who stands there calmly, and begins to pull his gloves back on. She smiles grimly.

"Mum?" Jenkins says. She looks down and smoothes the white hair back from his forehead. "Hush, Harry, you old goat. We'll have you in hospital in no time."

"Yes, Mum," Jenkins says. She just smiles and looks back at John. She is suddenly terribly, terribly proud of both her son and his intended. Lori and Galen sit there and watch all of this. They do not know what to do, so they do nothing.

Sherlock looks at John appreciatively. If John had thought it out beforehand, he couldn't have taken any other actions that would have cemented his relationship with Mummy more than the ones he just took. Also, Sherlock feels more than a little - smug - at the words "my boyfriend" as they come out of John's mouth. His vision seems to be clearing up a bit more. He regards John with admiration.

_"Really, John, sometimes, you are the tallest man I know."_

John takes the sig back from Williams, then considers the three men, his head cocked to one side. His voice is quiet and deadly.

"Whose idea was the barbed wire?" he says.

Anders, on the ground, groans, one hand clutches his jaw. He glances upward and looks murder at Mick Billings. Glenn glances at Billings, who stares straight at John.

Agent Roaman bends over Anders, jerks his hands back and secures Anders hands behind him. Then he steps away from the groaning man and positions himself once more to John's left side. He raises his weapon again, then looks sideways at Don Williams, who nods briefly at him. The two agents then put their attention back on the kidnappers.

Billings never takes his eyes off John. "Big man," he snarls. "Big man with a gun in your hand. You fucking pansy, both of you. You're dead, first chance I get."

John just smiles grimly. "I think one bullet for each puncture wound ought to do it."

"You don't have the balls!" shouts Billings. Glenn takes another step back and tries to keep his balance with his hands bound behind him. Then he takes another hesitant step back and away. He glances from Anders on the ground, back to John, then looks at Billings, whose face has gone white with sweat.

Billings' eyes are desperate.

Roaman moves quickly behind Billings, cuts through the zip ties, then stands just as quickly back, his weapon raised.

Billings pulls his hands up and in front of him to rub at his wrists. He looks at John Watson with sheer hatred.

John smiles. "I think we'll start with the left kneecap," he says. He raises Jake Lynn's Sig Sauer - and fires.

OooOooO


	21. Chapter 21

**These lads, in their current incarnation, are the property of the BBC and not of me and in their original incarnation, of the Estate of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. May his name be forever blessed!**

**THE BOYS OF BAKER STREET**

**CH. 21**

**Wherein John takes a flying leap - and Mummy is taken for a ride.**

**PROMISES: SEX, DRUGS AND ROCK AND ROLL (Guess how long I've waited to write THAT one!)**

**(Also: Language; Violence; Attempted Murder; Enough Angst to fill the Marianas trench and the deliberate targeting of one utterly gorgeous, brilliant yellow, Harley-Davidson motorcycle. DAMN IT!)**

**OooOooO**

John Watson is not and never has been a vindictive man. Until now.

John Watson is not and never has been a cruel man.

He still isn't.

And although he once sat on the filthy cracked cement floor of an outer room in a nearly demolished building north of Kandahar, wrists handcuffed, knees drawn up to his chin, mental processes blurred from whatever was in the hypo they just shot him up with - and was forced to watch helplessly as one of the young doctors under his command was deliberately shot in the stomach, just to prove a point, and although this cowardly action called forth the most murderous impulses he had ever yet experienced in his young life – Captain John Watson did not become, himself, murderous.

Although it was a near thing.

As he looks at Michael Billings, John is aware of several things, all of which race through his mind in two seconds flat. One is that Billings is unarmed. Two is that any action John takes now is most definitely taken in cold blood. And there's no going back from that. Three, there are innocent civilians present, "noncombatants" as Captain John thinks of them – Regina Holmes, Lori Hansen, Galen Dennison and Mr. Jenkins (he discounts Sherlock as being anything other than a noncombatant.) And there are certain actions you just do not take when noncombatants are present (to John's credit, he does not distinguish between female and male civilians.) And four, he wants nothing more than to take care of this violent son of a bitch in the most expedient manner possible, and then get Sherlock the medical attention he needs. Fast.

But as he holds Jake Lynn's weapon and stares down the sight at Billings, all John can think of is Jake Lynn, white-faced, shaking with reaction, after he'd been shot through that bloody window. And of Sherlock, white-faced, shaking with reaction, blood dripping through his dark curls and of those pale, pale wrists, swollen and covered in blood from the numerous punctures left by a doubled strand of goddamned barbed wire.

Somewhere in the back of John's mind, he thinks he hears the faint sounds of Sherlock's Strad.

He wonders if it's for the last time.

His eyes narrow as he lifts the Sig. Whatever action he takes at this moment will be premeditated and deliberate. And there are the civilians to consider. There is, however, absolutely nothing wrong with scaring the SOB – and of getting a little back for Jake Lynn and for Sherlock while he does it. He'll leave the more cold-blooded actions to Mycroft. Who he's certain will be more than happy to oblige.

As he aims the Sig at Billings, John says aloud, "I think we'll start with the left kneecap."

The words are meant, of course, to alarm Billings. They have their intended effect.

Mick Billings' eyes widen and he actually stumbles backward and trips over his own booted feet. He goes down, his newly-freed hands scrambling for purchase in the dirt and grass.

John aims for the left thigh – and fires the Sig.

Billings roars in pain and clasps a hand to his leg. His knee is intact – but he does not realise this yet. He screams, again, and his fist clutches his leg, just above his knee. Blood wells up under his fingers. His eyes bore into John's with hatred.

"You murdering bastard," he spits out. Then he doubles up over his injured leg. And begins to gag.

John grimaces. "Damn. You moved."

John's actions do not, of course, confuse any of the agents present – or Sherlock (or even Regina and Lori) - who are all certain that if Captain John Watson means to shoot a gnat's eye out at ten paces, he is most definitely capable of doing so.

John lowers his weapon as Roaman moves to secure Billings' hands behind his back.

He looks from the two men on the ground, both of them groaning and cursing, to Glenn, who stands in front and to the side of John, his eyes wide. Sweat gathers along his forehead and drops, unheeded, into his eyes.

John makes a curt gesture toward the dirt with the Sig Sauer. Glenn unhesitatingly drops to his knees on the ground, his hands still bound behind his back. John nods. He glances up, as Rob Enders rushes back into the clearing. Enders holds his weapon in one hand and extra blankets, and a roll of duct tape, in the other.

"Back-up's on its way, Sir. And an ambulance has been dispatched. Although it's still some way out." He hands the blankets off to Lori Hansen, who accepts them, and then hurries to help his fellow agents with the three kidnappers.

Roaman takes the duct tape from Enders and cuts the twist ties that secure Billings' hands behind his back, then yanks his hands in front of him and begins to wind the duct tape around his wrists. He repeats the action with Billing's ankles, shoves the man down on the ground, then steps back and raises his weapon again. Billings does not attempt to fight him during these actions, but tries to remain balanced on his one good leg and continues to shout curses at John, who simply ignores him.

Agent Don Williams takes the same actions with Anders, who groans and attempts to scream epithets at everyone present - difficult to do with a broken jaw.

From his new perch on the damp grass, Billings looks up at John. "You're a dead man, Watson!" he gasps.

John regards Billings dispassionately. He says grimly. "I've heard that before. You'd be surprised how tiring it gets with repetition."

John looks at Rob Enders. "ETA on that backup?"

Enders glances from the three kidnappers to John. "Less than twenty minutes, Sir. Mr. H. had help on standby for the past few hours, just waiting the word. I have no word yet on the ambulance. There have been multiple freeway accidents this afternoon. I just know one is on its way. We're rather _isolated_ out here."

John nods. He looks at the three agents. Then gestures to the three men kneeling on the ground. "Looks as if we will be needing two ambulances." He glances up at Roaman. "I'll leave that to you gentlemen. If you have these bastards in hand –"

Agent Terry Roaman nods. "We've got them, Sir."

"Good." John thumbs the safety on Jake Lynn's Sig and lowers the weapon. He looks at it for a second and frowns. He turns back to the men on the ground and takes four steps forward to look down at Mick Billings as the man writhes in pain. Billings groans aloud and shakes his head to dislodge droplets of sweat that pour down his face. Blood from the bullet wound in his thigh wells up, soaks through his trousers and drips down his knee, to fall onto the surrounding grass.

He does not look up at John Watson.

John's voice is calm as he regards the head kidnapper on the grass in front of him.

"Who fired the shot through the window?" he asks, almost casually. He keeps his eyes on the three kidnappers. Glenn frowns and glances to his right.

Billings gasps. "You fucking pansy! You have no idea what is about to –"

"Yes, we've been over that. The window shot - whose?" John asks again.

Billings lifts his head to look at John, then just shakes his head and mumbles something. John catches the muttered epithets, "fucking poofs" and "you're dead," and he sighs.

John looks from Billings to Anders.

Anders continues to groan around the thin stream of blood that drips from the corner of his mouth. His wrists are now taped together in front of him and he sits on his arse, his ankles also neatly duct taped together. He hunches over and does not raise his head to look at John. John hears only muttered curses.

John nods. "Fine." He uses his free hand to indicate the three agents who stand there, their weapons all trained on the kidnappers. "We'll let these gentlemen, and their boss, figure out which one of you fired that shot."

He starts to turn again, then stops as he passes the third man who sits on the ground, also with his wrists and ankles secured with duct tape. He regards Glenn, who lifts his head and looks steadily back at John.

John addresses his last remark to Glenn as the only kidnapper who isn't currently bleeding and swearing a blue streak at John and his men. "Although, knowing their boss, you're probably going to wish you'd gone ahead and answered the question when you had the chance."

Glenn's eyes widen as he stares after John. He stammers. "Anders – it was Anders –"

"You bloody arse!" Anders shouts – or tries to. His words come out as a mix of sound, fury and barely discernible English. Spittle mixes with blood and drops from bitten lips as he continues to shake his head from side to side. "You lying coward!" John _thinks_ that's what he says.

John looks from Glenn to Anders. Then he glances at Rob Enders. Rob just nods. "We'll take care of it, Sir."

"I'm sure you will," John says, suddenly very tired. He turns and walks toward Sherlock.

**OooOooO**

"Yes, Sherlock."

"No, John. I understand the need to have Mr. Jenkins looked after but—"

"Sherlock Holmes, if I have to duct tape you to a stretcher and tie you to the roof of the ambulance, you will most assuredly go to the closest hospital. And tonight. You need an x-ray, possibly a CAT scan and most definitely stitches. I want that rib x-rayed and your wrists —"

"John. We still have –" Sherlock breaks off as he winces. His eyes nearly close and his head bows for a moment. He takes a few deep breaths - and stops arguing with John.

John nods. He says quietly, "That's what I thought." He stands directly in front of the detective and brushes an errant curl away from Sherlock's forehead. Sherlock leans forward slightly, to rest his aching head against John Watson's midsection. John's bright head bends toward Sherlock, his steady hands encircle the detective's shoulders. There's silence between them as the two men become momentarily lost in each other.

John lifts his head to look at Lori and Galen, who sit on the ground with Jenkins. "Ms. Hansen? Can you stay with this stubborn idiot for a few?"

"Of course, Doctor Watson." She gets to her feet and brings one of the blankets that Rob Enders has just handed to her. She moves to drape it around Sherlock. He glances from her to John, his eyes a pale greyish-green in the late afternoon light.

"John, please. I will be perfectly fine if I stay with you in the house – "

John shakes his head. "I'm going with you to hospital, you daft bugger." He frowns at Sherlock, whose eyes once again appear slightly out of focus. 

"Lori, normally, I wouldn't want him moved until the ambulance gets here, but it's getting late and it's cool out here."

John glances over at Regina Holmes, who still sits on the blanket with Mr. Jenkins' head in her lap. She quietly discusses something with Galen Dennison.  Dennison shakes his head.

Sunset is less than one hour away.

He frowns at Sherlock. "I need to go collect the —"

"Sir?" Don Williams comes up behind them. John turns his head to look at the agent.

Don grins at him. "Sir? I know you left the Harley back there and, well, I'm certain you don't want to leave Mr. Holmes. I'll be glad to go fetch it."

John smiles tiredly. "I don't doubt it."

He glances over at the other two agents and at the three kidnappers on the ground. All three have now been secured with duct tape. It will take an act of Parliament to get them out of the sticky stuff. There is no way in hell they are going anywhere. And it appears as if the one called Billings may just be bleeding to death. He has curled up on the ground and lies there, whimpering, like a child.

Agents Enders and Roaman stand there with their weapons trained on the three. Enders says something to Roaman, who nods, and then Enders turns to walk toward John, his weapon held by his side.

John fishes his key out of his pocket. "It's one mile back, on your left, hidden in the bushes." He hands it to Williams. "Tell me you didn't draw lots to see who—"

"Actually, Sir, that's just what we did," Don Williams says.

John grins. "And find Sherlock's mobile, will you?  I dropped it on the ground back there, about 50 feet back. And hurry, Don. The sun'll be going down soon."

Don nods. "You got it, Sir." He hurries away.

Agent Rob Enders comes up to John. "Sir? I thought I'd escort Sherlock – Mr. Holmes -  and Ms. Hansen to the Rover and get them back to the house to wait for the ambulance, then come back for Mrs. Holmes."

John frowns. "I really don't want to move him if we can help it. Not until the ambulance gets here. Do we have an ETA on that?"

Rob Enders shakes his head. "No sir. I'll check again but last ETA on the ambulance was nearly 75 minutes." He glances at his watch. "About 45 minutes now, Sir, possibly less."

"45 minutes! What in the name of—"

"Not certain, Captain Watson." He waits patiently. John sighs and looks down at Sherlock, who just tilts his head and looks smugly back at him.

He makes a decision. "All right. They'll be able to take a look at him more easily up at the house then down here in the woods. And it'll be dark by the time they get here." He nods at Rob Enders. "Go ahead but don't take him to our room. Keep him on the ground floor. I don't want him walking too far and definitely no stairs. And keep him awake. The kitchen or dining room is fine. Talk to him. Play soft rock music if you have to. He hates it. Anything to keep him awake, even if it's irritating, particularly if it's irritating. I'll be there shortly."

Enders nods. He looks at Lori. "Ms. Hansen?"

"Coming." Lori places one small hand on Sherlock's forearm to help steady him as he stands.

He looks down slightly at John. "John, are you—"

"Sherlock, just go with them to the house. I'll be there shortly. If there's room in the ambulance with you and Mr. Jenkins, then I'll go with. If not, I'll follow right behind in one of the cars."

Sherlock starts to nod, then winces. He smiles tiredly at John. "All right, John." John reaches out and touches the detective on his left arm just above the bandaged wrist. "It's going to be fine, Sherlock. We'll get you looked at and, it's all going to be fine."

Sherlock Holmes looks at John Watson. He draws himself up to his full height. His tone is ironic. "I know that, John. Don't be obtuse." And he begins to follow Agent Rob Enders out of the clearing.

John watches the three of them. They walk slowly, so as not to rush Sherlock. As they leave the clearing, John can hear him arguing with Lori Hansen about something. "Ms. Hansen, I assure you, it is totally unnecessary for me to—"

"Mr. Holmes, Captain Watson will bloody well _kill_ me if you don't –"

Their voices fade as John walks over to speak with Regina Holmes and Dr. Dennison and to get her and Mr. Jenkins off the damp ground.

Regina lifts her head and watches her son as he walks away.

**OooOooO**

He hangs up from speaking with Agent Enders, then places his mobile carefully on the desk to his left where it always sits until needed. He lines the mobile up carefully, so the edges of the phone correspond to the edges of the desk. As if by doing so, something is appeased.

Then the most powerful man in the hemisphere puts his head in his hands and shuts his eyes.

_They are safe. All of them. Safe. Mummy. Sherlock. John. and Jenkins. Safe. As well as all of his men. No repeat of what happened to Jake Lynn. And that goes for the civilians in their care – Oakton, Dennison, Hansen. All of them. Everyone – save Lynn - is coming out of this one nearly intact. There are the injuries to Sherlock – but Enders assures him Captain Watson is taking care of those immediately. "Captain" Watson? And Enders also assures him that Watson says Mr. Jenkins will be just fine, which will undoubtedly make Mummy very happy._

He takes a deep breath. Another. Okay, then, one more.

Mycroft Holmes lifts his head and glances around his office. He straightens up, looks at the small stack of files to his left and lifts the top one off the pile. The label simply says MBillings. He begins to flip through the meager file. And finds it hard to concentrate. He is grateful that Anthea is not here to see his apparent mental – and emotional - confusion.

He knows that the overwhelming anger over what amounts to a virtual kidnapping of their mother and their family chauffeur will surface in a few seconds. That the intense anger over what has been done to Sherlock will also surface quite, quite soon. But he makes the conscious decision to let those emotions – that anger – remain below his consciousness for a few more minutes.

John seems to be all over this situation, as one of his men would say. Still – _this Billings person_ … He flips the folder shut again and shoves it to the side.

He glances at his watch. Then at the darkening sky.

He needs to see for himself .. needs to see Mummy, check on Sherlock, make certain that Jenkins is all right, talk to John, see his men. He'll wait for John to call him and then he'll go to whichever hospital Sherlock is admitted to – Wexham Park? Yes, definitely. It's closest and they have a state of the art A&E. He picks up his mobile to call John on Sherlock's mobile. No answer.

Mycroft Holmes folds his hands under his chin, looks at the two empty visitor chairs in front of his desk and attempts to come to grips with the realisation that – when all is said and done – he is basically, a rather typical human being. With rather typical feelings of concern about his family. And he appears to be experiencing a rather typical _reaction_ to the end of the immediate crisis.

It's not a comforting realisation at all.

His rather emotional response, however, will not keep him from taking charge of this Billings' person – and his interrogation. If he is – was – working for Moriarty and now Ronald Adair, then … at the thought, Mycroft narrows his eyes.

His door opens and he glances over. _Her_ assistant walks in and stands in front of him. Grateful for the distraction, Mycroft looks up at her, expecting to see a cup of hot Earl Grey or at the very least – then he sees her eyes.

"Deborah?" And he knows. He knows. It was only a matter of days, hours really.

"Agent McReedy," she says quietly. "He –"

He nods. _Another good man lost_. "When?"

"About an hour ago. But the hospital just called a few minutes ago."

He frowns. "His sister?"

She bends to place a file on the desk in front of him. "Cynthia McReedy, Age 21. I believe she has been in to visit him more or less constantly since it happened."

He takes the file out of her hands. "Have you received a call from Anthea this evening? She is in the same hospital as McReedy" – _and Jake Lynn,_ he reminds himself.

She shakes her head. "No sir. The last text I received was a few hours ago. She had been in to see Agent Lynn, just before his surgery."

"Ah, yes. And how did he do?"

She smiles, happy that she can give him some good news. "He came through it just fine. They removed the bullet and stopped the bleeding. They were able to repair most of the damage. He'll have to undergo extensive physical therapy, of course. But he will not lose the use of his arm. Overall, an excellent prognosis."

She does not tell him that Anthea is apparently still in his hospital room. She does not feel that this is anyone's business save Anthea's – at least, not yet.

He nods. "Excellent. Thank you, my dear." He flips through McReedy's file. Then looks up at her. "Have you tried to contact Agent McReedy's sister?"

"Yes, Sir. There's been no answer on either her landline or the mobile we have for her. But I will keep trying. The hospital administrator said that she was by her brother's side when he – well, apparently she left Bart's shortly after leaving some requests for them concerning –"

"Yes. All right. Please keep trying. And please arrange for the policies to be paid out to her as quickly as possible."

He pauses, taps his fingers on Agent McReedy's file. Then he looks up at her. "I have forgotten. Is his sister at Uni?"

She shakes her head. "I do not know, Sir. But I can find out."

He nods. "Please do so. If she isn't currently studying, then perhaps the proceeds from his policies can help her toward that goal. At any rate, I believe she is – was – Jeremy McReedy's only living relative. I want to make certain that all arrangements are taken care of and that the burden of those arrangements are removed from her shoulders."

She nods. "I'll take care of it immediately, Sir."

He studies her. "I know it's getting late –"

"Actually, Sir, I'm used to the hours. Not to worry. I'll let you know when I am able to reach her."

"Thank you, Deborah." He watches her walk to the door, where she turns.

"I'll bring in a hot cup of tea now, Sir, if you're ready."

He smiles. "That would be fine. I am awaiting a personal phone call and when that comes through, I'll be leaving to take care of some personal business. At that time, I want you to leave, as well. There's no need for you to exhaust yourself over this."

She smiles gently. "Be right in with the tea, Sir."

He flips through McReedy's file one last time, then shuts it and places it on top of the stack.

Something nags at him. He looks at his desktop, at the few files stacked to his left, the leather blotter just under his hands, his platinum pen, lined up with the blotter edge to his right. And at the small memory stick that she left on his desk earlier.

Mycroft picks up the memory stick, then reaches for the notebook pc and pulls it toward him again.

Cynthia McReedy. Age 21. Cynthia.

He frowns. And pops in the small stick that holds the recording of Miles Jackson's interrogation. Then he hesitates before he runs it. Mycroft sits there and faces the fact that he is so damned tired, perhaps from the crash of the adrenalin rush, that he does not want to move.

If this is what the day's events have done to him, he would do well to drink his tea and leave the office. Call it a decade. Make the trip to see Mummy and Sherlock. Reassure himself all is well with his family. Then come back to this with a clear head.

He frowns, his cursor poised over Play.

**OooOooO**

Cynthia McReedy, age 21, sole surviving member of her immediate family, sits in her car in the car park for St. Bart's hospital and quietly cries. There is no one for her to call, other than her Aunt. And they have not spoken to each other since her Mum died, four years ago. She blows her nose. Then rummages through her purse for more tissues.

Jeremy was all she had. And now he's gone. Her big brother, her wonderful brother, the smart one, the one with the dangerous, slightly mysterious job, is gone. Some small part of Cynthia's mind tells her that Jeremy was "gone" a few weeks ago, that machines have been keeping him alive, breathing for him, taking over his body's needs for him, but she refuses to acknowledge this. Instead, all she can think is that Jeremy McReedy is dead.

And it's all the fault of Jeremy's boss – Mr. Holmes.

After all, Jeremy works – worked – for Mr. Holmes. He was guarding a close friend of Mr. Holmes' brother when he was shot. The other Holmes. The famous detective that everyone says is just a little crazy. And the Army doctor that goes around with him everywhere. The Army doctor who died in that ambulance accident. And the crazy younger Holmes brother who apparently is still alive – just - at some hospital somewhere. Jeremy is dead because of these people. Her brother is dead. Gone from her. And there's not a blessed thing she can do about it.

She blows her nose again, then sits back, tissue balled up in her fist, and looks out the car window. It will be dark soon. She needs to drive home. Get away from this horrid hospital. Away from St. Bart's. She's been here nearly every day for weeks. And it hasn't made a bit of difference.

She doesn't even know if Jeremy knows – knew – that she was there, holding his hand, talking to him. Assuring him that everything was going to be just fine.

And now he's gone and she'll never know if he knew she was there for him when it most mattered.

She'll never know.

She rummages in her purse and pulls out the single sheet of instructions Ms. Brown gave her. Cynthia knows she's not supposed to write any of this down but with Jeremy's condition, well, she finds herself forgetting occasionally . She looks on the floorboard of the passenger side. The small box sits there. She has followed Ms. Brown's instructions carefully, as she is grateful for the job Ms. Brown obtained for her. This woman who everyone rushes to obey. This woman who is so high up in British society. She has followed her instructions to the letter. But up till now she has not taken the final step.

Cynthia thinks about the woman who occasionally comes to stand with her at Jeremy's side. The beautiful woman who works for Mr. Holmes – Jeremy's boss. And although this woman, too, works for Mr. Holmes, Cynthia feels no animosity toward her. Cynthia does not blame her at for Jeremy's death, although she is aware that Jeremy frequently received instructions from her.

After all, she is just one of Mr. Holmes' workers. One of his puppets. Just like all the others. Just like her Jeremy. Her sweet dead Jeremy.

And until now, she has refused to take the final step that Ms. Brown requested of her. But now –

Her mobile rings. Cynthia fishes it out of the side pocket of her purse.

"Cynthia? I know you're visiting her brother in Bart's, how is he, by the way?, but we were wondering if you could work for us tomorrow? We're shorthanded."

Cynthia McReedy stares out the window of her car at the cement wall in front of her. The one with the number 537 painted on it. 537 she thinks. And the car park is full. So there are at least 536 other people visiting their loved ones in St. Bart's. She wonders if any of them have just lost their entire family. If any of them have had to stand there while their world collapsed around them.

"Cynthia? Are you there?"

She shakes herself. She is going to need the money. She knows if she tells the dispatcher that Jeremy just – that he's gone – they won't ask her to work. But she's going to need the cash.

"Yes, I'm here. What job?"

"Well, its' the same one you've worked on for the past two weeks. The mansion out near Ascot. Apparently, the matron of the family is back in the country and wants the place put to rights."

"You mean, the Holmes mansion?" Cynthia's eyes widen and she turns her head to look at the small box on the floor of her car.

"I guess that's it. Same address as you went to last time. That's the one. You've been there four times with the cleaning crew and this is the last time they'll be called. The original crew will be back in a few days. Or so I'm told. Can you help us out?"

Cynthia McReedy can’t take her eyes off the small box. "Yes. Yes, I think I can help you. What time?"

"Oh, luv. Thank you. I hated to think we would have to train someone new at the last minute. The usual time. In the morning, please. And Cynthia, can you drive your own car? They want to get an early start and don't want to have to pick you up. We'll reimburse your petrol, of course."

"Yes. That's fine," she says quietly.

"Wonderful! You've no idea how you've helped us out. Ta."

The woman hangs up.

Cynthia McReedy, age 21, reaches down and gingerly picks up the small box. She opens the lid and looks at what is inside, then shuts the flap and carefully places the box back on the floorboard of her car.

"And you've no idea how you've helped me out," she whispers.

As she starts her car's engine and prepares to drive home, alone, she thinks of what Ms. Brown expects of her. But she also idly wonders, as she drives away, which of these fancy cars, if any, belongs to Mr. Holmes.

**OooOooO**

"Regina?"

John comes up to Sherlock's mother and Galen Dennison. Mr. Jenkins, he notes, is pale, but Dennison has managed to stop the bleeding. The wound to his neck is not serious, although John knows it probably does not feel that way to the elderly gentleman. Jenkins startles at the sound of John's voice and looks up at Mrs. Holmes and at John. John is taken aback by the beautiful sky blue of the chauffeur's eyes. Aside from the bandage on his neck and his obvious pallor, Jenkins appears to be otherwise unharmed.

"Yes, John."

Regina Holmes bends over her family chauffeur, and friend, and gently lifts his head off her lap and onto the blanket. Galen Dennison takes the aged man's pulse with his fingertips. He glances at Regina and nods.

Regina comes to her feet in one smooth motion, her movements belying her years, and John is struck again by her slim figure (he believes the term is 'willowy'), her height, tall for a female, and her incredible gray-green eyes. Sherlock's eyes. She brushes off her clothes, although they are obviously ruined, and then looks down at Galen Dennison.

"Doctor Dennison, I do appreciate your ministrations to Mr. Jenkins." She looks to John. "I understand an ambulance is in the offing?"

John nods, suddenly tongue tied around the woman who gave birth to the man he loves. "About thirty minutes, give or take a few," he says. "I do think we need to get Mr. Jenkins off the ground and out of the cool air." He glances skyward. "It'll be sundown soon. He doesn't need –"

"Quite," Regina says, her manner suddenly formal. She looks over at the three kidnappers who sit on the ground, being guarded by Agent Roaman, and her eyes narrow. Then she looks back at John. And her gaze softens.

"John, I am most appreciative of everything you have done here today to help my family, particularly for my son," she glances over to Jenkins, "and my chauffeur, who is also a close family friend."

John nods. _So we're going all formal now_ , he thinks, suddenly more tired than he's been in ages. It's just as well. He's only spoken to Regina Holmes a few times before. And he always comes away feeling that one of them has managed to gain the upper hand.

And that person's name is never John Hamish Watson.

Before he can say anything else, he hears the sound of a car's engine. And a door slam. He looks toward the road and the barrier. And grips Jake's Sig.

"Captain Watson?" Rob Enders comes into the clearing. "I've got Mr. Holmes sitting in the kitchen with Ms. Hansen and I'm here to collect Mrs. Holmes and her chauffeur."

Before John can respond, he hears the unmistakable sound of a Harley's engine being revved and Don Williams roars in to the clearing, throttling back as he comes up to them.

John looks at Don, who grins back at him, as he comes up and hands John the ignition key.

"Rides like a bloody dream," he says. He walks over to stand next to Rob Enders.

Regina looks from Don Williams over to the yellow Harley-Davidson and raises one beautiful eyebrow.

She smiles at John. "I see you found your wedding gift from Mycroft and myself. Pity, it was unwrapped so soon. It was supposed to be a surprise." She walks over to the Harley and takes a good look at the bike. Then she nods. John follows her and wonders what Regina Holmes knows, if anything, about motorcycles

" _Probably about the same that I know,"_ John thinks, to be fair to Regina.

"I'm sorry to spoil the surprise." He runs his hand over the leather seat. He has to look up slightly to meet her eyes. _Damn it, is he destined to be dwarfed by every Holmes he comes across?_

"But I can't say I'm sorry that it was here. It certainly came in useful. And thank you, by the way." He looks at the Harley, then back to Sherlock's mother. "I was – pleasantly surprised, to say the least."

He wonders if it is Sherlock who has told the Holmes matron about their impending union. Somehow he doubts it. He suspects that Regina Holmes has more in common with her youngest son than just her startling eye color. And if he's correct in his assumption that Regina has also passed on the casual mind reading that he and Sherlock seem to share between them, well, all John knows is that he's going to have keep a firm hand on his thoughts, particularly when he's around Sherlock and his mother at the same time.

As if she knows what John is thinking, Regina Holmes nods at nothing, as if agreeing with him, then looks over the vintage motorcycle. Her eyes travel over its lines. She nods again. She turns to John, and her grey-green eyes have suddenly gone more green than grey. She flashes a quick smile at him. John feels something funny happen to his insides. That's Sherlock's smile. It doesn't seem _right_ to see it on his mother's face.

"Well, then. How about a ride?"

John startles. "Er – what now?"

"Captain Watson. You did not seriously think I was going to gift you with the most enchanting bike I've seen for years and not beg a ride, did you?"

John Watson doesn't blush. Much. But his face suddenly feels hot.

Agent Enders clears his throat. "Well then. Looks like Don and I need to get Mr. Jenkins and Doctor Dennison back to the house and wait for that ambulance."

At the word "house" Regina's pupils react slightly, then relax again. If John had not been looking directly at her, he would never have seen it. _Ah. She does mind, then._

Without taking his eyes off Regina Holmes, John says to the two agents, "Gentlemen? Please get Mr. Jenkins and the good doctor inside as quickly as possible. Mrs. Holmes and I will be there shortly."

He very pointedly thumbs the safety on to Jake's Sig, and hands it silently to Rob Enders, who nods and takes it. John's Browning is still in his back waistband and he leaves it there. He still has not taken his eyes off Regina Holmes. She looks placidly back at him.

The two men look from John to Regina Holmes and their eyebrows nearly crawl off their faces.

Enders answers for both of them. "Er, all right, Captain Watson, Sir."

John looks directly into Regina's eyes, " _I'll be damned if I let her have the upper hand each time we meet."_ He sweeps a hand at the Harley. "I don't have any helmets, but –"

Regina just smiles, unperturbed. "Then, I imagine you will have to be particularly careful not to tip us over, John."

John Watson blushes.

**OooOooO**

Sherlock drinks the glass of water Lori hands him, then fidgets with John's mobile, which Agent Roaman found on the floor of the SUV. Finally, he cannot bare waiting any longer and he stands up. Maggie Oakton, who has waited patiently for an hour or more for someone to come tell her all is well, looks up from where she is tuning the radio dial to her favorite 80's station. She smiles at Sherlock, but notes his extraordinarily pale complexion, one shade paler than usual.  With a glance at Lori, she deliberately turns the volume dial up a bit. Lori nods at her, then goes out into the garden, a small plate in her hand.

"Mr. Holmes ? Sherlock? I'm not certain you should be standing –"

"I'm fine," Sherlock snaps. He glances around the kitchen then out the tall windows at the sky, going slowly violet and deep blue around the edges. He runs a hand through his dark curls and she sees with a pang that the bandages around his wrists are tinged with pink. She shakes her head. Lori Hansen has quietly filled her in on the events down at the clearing and Maggie cannot believe she has had to sit here and wait for news while all this incredible drama has gone on around her. She keeps looking at the double doors, hoping to see Galen come through them any second. And Mrs. Holmes, of course.

Lori comes in from the garden, where she has set out more food for the feral kitten. She looks at Sherlock, who paces the length of the kitchen, and opens her mouth to speak, but then he whirls and pierces her with his grey eyes, as if daring her to say something. She shuts her mouth abruptly and just stands there. And waits for him to erupt.

" _Honestly, he's all bang and flash, like a ruddy volcano or something, when Doctor Watson isn't with him for any length of time,"_ Lori thinks. She wonders if she and Joe will ever have this intense a relationship. She certainly hopes so.

Lori glances at Maggie and then comes to a decision. "Mr. Holmes, it's a beautiful evening . Let's go back outside and wait for Doctor Watson and your mother and for that ambulance."

"That's the most sensible suggestion I have heard so far," Sherlock snaps. Behind him, Maggie Oakton's radio is playing soft rock – 80's rock – playing it far too loudly, and it's enough to make Sherlock want to take a carving knife and gut the thing. And then turn the blade on himself. He doesn't say another word, however, but strides out of the kitchen on his long legs, headed for the front of the house. Lori trots alongside to keep up.

Maggie Oakton sits and waits for everyone to come back to the mansion.  She reaches over and turns the volume down.

**OooOooO**

In the clearing, Don Williams and Rob Enders watch in mild disbelief as Captain Watson roars off on the Harley, headed down the long road toward the woods and open country, Regina Holmes seated firmly behind him.  Her slim hands are clasped tightly around Watson's waist and her head laid against his back. John has the headlights on.

Enders is the first to clear his throat.

"Well, then. Let's get these two up to the house. That ambulance should be here any minute."

Don Williams nods. But he continues to watch as the rapidly disappearing motorbike and its two riders.

He hears the sound of a car and both he and Enders have their weapons out and at the ready. Then they relax. It's the four extra men that Mycroft has sent. They all nod to each other and two of the relief agents go over to stand guard over the three kidnappers and to give Agent Roaman a much needed break.

**OooOooO**

At the entryway to the mansion, Sherlock breathes in the cool evening air.  He looks expectantly down the long drive toward the woods. He watches as the Rover comes back and Agents Williams and Enders help Mr. Jenkins into the house to await the ambulance. Galen Dennison follows them into the garage. Sherlock remains to watch the road.

Suddenly he sees the flashing lights of an ambulance as it turns right and begins to make its way up the road. He loses sight of it at the dip, then it appears again, much closer.  Bloody thing.  He and John have things to do. A hospital visit does not figure into his plans. But maybe if he lets John have his way, then the two of them can –

Sherlock's eyes widen as a motorcycle comes roaring up the drive, passes the ambulance by, and comes to a sudden halt, a few feet from the entryway to the house. The bike shines a bright yellow in the glow of the flood lights.

John Watson tilts the bike over on its stand – and Regina Holmes calmly releases her hold on John's waist, swings one long leg over and stands up, brushing a slim hand at her trousers as she does so. She looks at John and smiles. "Thank you, John. That was most exhilarating."

Sherlock looks from his mother, as she walks toward the ambulance to have a word with the attendants, then toward John, then at the yellow motorcycle. And realizes that John is correct. He assuredly needs to go to hospital and the sooner the better.

Either he has definitely suffered a concussion – or Hell has officially frozen over. As John walks toward him, flashing a quick embarrassed grin, Sherlock's not certain which.

**OooOooO**

Sherlock sits quietly in the open ambulance while the attendant asks him the standard questions. John stands nearby, arms crossed over his chest, and observes but does not interfere. At first. The second EMT fusses with Sherlock's head wound, disinfecting it, bandaging it, and Sherlock allows this, too, with a minimum of fuss.

But John knows he's about to blow.

Sherlock tolerates the simple hand–eye coordination tests. But then comes the round of standardized tests to judge concussion.

And Sherlock is off and running.

They aren't even in the freaking hospital yet. In fact, they haven't managed to leave the freaking driveway. Meanwhile, Mr. Harry Jenkins, Mummy's chauffeur, answers every question asked of him like a lamb and is promptly and gently strapped into a gurney preparatory to transport to the nearest hospital.

Sherlock's turn.

"What is today's date?" – "BORING." ("Answer the question, Sherlock.")

"Where are you?" – "THAT SHOULD BE OBVIOUS, EVEN TO YOU. PRESUMABLY YOU KNOW OR YOU WOULD NOT HAVE BEEN ABLE TO FIND YOUR WAY HERE." ("Answer the freaking question, Sherlock.")

"What happened to you?" – "I'M SORRY. WHAT LEVEL SECURITY CLEARANCE DO YOU POSSESS? ("Sherlock!")

"What is your name?" – "SHERLOCK HOLMES." Pause "SHOULD I SPELL IT FOR YOU?" ("Oh, good God!")

"Are you feeling alright?" - "THIS IS A TRICK QUESTION, CORRECT? ( IBID)

Sherlock answers all the questions with repeated dramatic sighs. It's when he replies to the emergency technician's last question, "Are you feeling alright?" that he finally explodes.

"Do I look as if I'm feeling all right? Never mind. Don't answer that one. Let's play twenty questions. You can start by inspecting the open wound at the back of my head, cross exam the bleeding wrappings around my ankles and wrists and –"

"Sherlock." John uncrosses his arms and fixes his sweetie with a firm glance.

"Honestly, John, the asinine nature of these questions utterly beg the response."

"Sherlock. Answer. The. Freaking. Questions. Now."

John's look is murderous and Sherlock, glancing into those dark blue eyes, finally relents. And even goes so far as to apologise to the EMT, which John did not expect but appreciates nonetheless.

It is decided that both Sherlock and Mr. Jenkins would benefit from a trip to hospital and the detective sighs, fully expecting John to travel with him. But there isn't enough room for them all and John very naturally and courteously assumes that Mrs. Holmes will want to travel with her aged family servant. And to keep an eye on her youngest son. Which she does.

But it is this action that makes Sherlock narrow his eyes at John and turn his head away, as John tries to give him a quick kiss before the ambulance doors close.

John, who has had enough childish behavior from this man to last a freaking lifetime, just rolls his eyes and commandeers one of the vehicles, the SUV. He follows the ambulance to the closest available hospital, Wexham Park, and sits and answers questions concerning how Sherlock was injured (blunt trauma to the back of the head – John feels he should not bring up "by rifle butt" at this time but fears it will all come out eventually, anyway.)

He then sits with Sherlock while he is given the same standard tests for concussion, as well as another hand-eye coordination test, which he passes with flying colors, after first making helpful suggestions as to how the test can be made " _much more effective_ _and actually render useful information_ " and then an x-ray, (which proves he does not have a cracked skull) and another x-ray (which shows his rib is not cracked but from the way it pains Sherlock, it is undoubtedly badly bruised) and then receives twelve tight stitches in the wound on the back of his head, during which operation, John stands over the attending nurse to insist she shave only the absolute necessary amount of the dark curls. Sherlock's wrists and ankles are disinfected, treated and bandaged with the minimum of fuss. For which John is truly grateful.

John sits through the doctor's discussion of Sherlock's symptoms and the necessity of having him spend the night under observation.

Finally, eons later, they are shown to a room. But either Mummy or Mycroft have been there before them, because Sherlock has the luxury of a single room. And John has the luxury of an honest-to-God fold-out bed in the guise of a reclining chair.

"Don't worry one bit, Doctor Watson. It's all been taken care of."

John just bets it has.

And finally, FINALLY, John sits in a not entirely uncomfortable chair by Sherlock's bedside and holds his hand, while the detective embarks on what John believes to be his fourth rant of the evening. Upon reflection, John believes it could be the fifth as he is very, VERY tired and has lost count.

Mercifully, Regina Holmes looks in on her son just once, preparatory to leaving for the evening. Where she plans on going, John can guess. But he does not bring it up.

Mr. Jenkins is resting quietly and can leave in the morning, according to Sherlock's Mum.

Sherlock nods. Thanks her for checking on him, then turns his head away and becomes quite interested in the white plastic blinds that cover the window.

John grimaces at this rude behavior, then shakes his head and thanks Regina for stopping by, assures her that Sherlock will be able to leave in the morning; assures her that the x-rays and other tests were negative; his rib is undoubtedly badly bruised, but not actually cracked; the head wound has been closed with stitches; Sherlock has received a tetanus shot; her son's ankles and wrists have been looked after; Sherlock's eyesight is much improved and his overall coordination appears to be unaffected. He is, however, in pain, and has been given a pain reliever, which action John regrets as being necessary; however, they historically make Sherlock talkative, even more than usual, rather than sleepy.

He winces when he thinks of the night ahead.

**OooOooO**

Galen Dennison sits with Maggie Oakton in the kitchen. Maggie and Lori, helped by Galen, have managed to put together a casual meal, consisting of hot soup, a quickly tossed salad and hot rolls.

Mycroft's men, the ones staying at the mansion for the night, wander in, grab a quick meal, then go back out again. At some time during this, Don Williams tells them that the three kidnappers have been collected and taken away. Where they are taken to, neither Lori, Maggie or Galen have a clue. Nor does Agent Williams volunteer the information.

Agent Williams and Roaman, helped by one of the relief agents, make trips to the clearing and bring back two loads of various weapons, most of it surplus. They gather in the garage to list the items and to send texts.

Rob Enders brings the relief agents up to speed, then leaves to spend a much-needed evening off with his partner, Anthony. He grins at Terry Roaman and assures him he will be back early in the morning. Roaman just smiles and tells him to have a good evening.

Lori eats a small meal, then notices the shared silence between Doctors Dennison and Oakton. She smiles to herself, carries her dishes to the sink, wishes them a good evening, and goes to her room to call Joe, fill him in, and sit there while he undoubtedly shouts, waves his arms, and has a minor breakdown. She's looking forward to it.

Galen eats very little, as does Maggie. Maggie's radio plays softly in the background. As a new song begins, Galen glances up. " _Spandau Ballet,"_ he notes.

As the soft words to **_True_** begin, Galen looks at Maggie. "I've always liked this song," he says.

Maggie flashes him a smile, as she fiddles with her salad. "Me too. I've even looped it on my player. It helps me to relax."

She looks at Galen for a moment, then hurriedly lowers her head and goes back to her light meal.

Galen studies her dark head, suddenly not hungry.

**OooOooO**

John says nothing about the long-term results of having one's wrists wrapped in barbed wire and Regina Holmes does not ask. But once she is away from the hospital, she calls Mycroft to fill him in on Sherlock's condition (which John has already done) and admonishes him to find the best people, "The very **best** people, and immediately, Son," to care for Sherlock's wrists, hands and fingers, and to ensure he has no lasting ill effects from his mistreatment.

Mycroft has already begun this search, determined that his younger brother will not only recover totally from this ordeal but will be able to play the violin again, specifically the violin that he has obtained for Sherlock as a wedding gift, through Anthea's efforts. When Mummy calls and asks him to take the steps he has already taken and to give him the information that John has already relayed, he just sighs.

And says, "Of course, Mummy."

Deborah listens to his tone of voice, and promptly brings him a bottle of his favorite single malt and a beautifully cut crystal glass.

Mycroft thinks that she just might make a most excellent assistant to his assistant, momentarily forgetting that she already is all of that. He drinks the single malt and feels much better all the way around. He decides there is no need to drive out to see Sherlock or Mummy or Mr. Jenkins as it all seems to have been taken in hand. He will leave for the evening and go home for once and let the devil take the hindmost. He will deal with all of this after a few hours of sleep. As his driver meets him at the car, he wonders what has become of Anthea.

And here Mycroft makes his one small mistake. He doesn't re-listen to the memory stick currently sitting in the slot of his computer. He goes home instead.

**OooOooO**

"John?"

"Hmmm."

John Watson is using the reclining chair as God intended it to be used – as a recliner. That is, he is fully reclined and feeling rather comfortable. His boots are off, he is covered with not only a sheet but two blankets, there is a small pillow behind his head, the blinds are closed, Sherlock's hospital room is dark and cool, but not cold, and if he can get the detective to just – _shut the hell up_ – for a few minutes, he might even be able to rest.

"John?"

"Yes, Sherlock?"

"Explain the term 'soft rock' to me, please. Because Doctor Oakton not only insists on listening to the – I believe the word I am looking for is ** _crap_ ** – but also seems to actually enjoy it."

"Hmmm."

"John?"

"Yes, Sherlock?"

"The explanation? I mean, Doctor Watson, or should I hereafter refer to you as _Captain_ Watson, what can be the possible explanation of lyrics which actually contain the phrase 'I saw a werewolf walking with the Queen'? Because, honestly, John –"

"Sherlock?"

"Yes, John."

"Shut the fuck up. I'm trying to sleep here."

"But John –"

"I swear to God, Sherlock Holmes, if you don't shut up this instant and let me get some much needed rest, I will put my boots on and leave you to it. I will, too."

Dead silence.

"Sherlock?"

Dead silence.

"Sherlock? I hope you believe what I said, yeah? And I'll make certain you cannot check yourself out, once I leave. I'll call your brother and he will send five agents to sit with you – or on you – to ensure that you rest."

Dead silence.

"Okay, then. I hope we're clear."

Dead silence.

More dead silence.

Quiet snores – John's.

Restless movement - Sherlock's.

"John?" - Throaty whisper.

"Yes, Sherlock?" - Resigned, heavy sigh.

"John Watson, I might not have told you this but your actions today, not only on Mummy's behalf but particularly those on mine – well, John …"

"Yes, Sherlock?"

"I – Blast, I thought I was getting better at this."

"Yes, Sherlock?"

"John – I just want you to know that I think – that you are – Oh Good God! John Watson, I think you are bloody marvelous!"

Dead silence.

Shocked dead silence.

"That's all I have to say at this time, John."

Shocked and appreciative dead silence.

"Going to sleep now, John.  Good night, John."

"Good night, Sherlock. And Sherlock?"

"Yes, John?"

"I think you're bloody marvelous, too. And I love you, you stupid git."

"Thank you, John."

"Don't mention it. Now let's get some sleep, all right?"

"Yes, John."

Blessed silence.

Snores – John's

Restless movements - Sherlock's

"Although I feel I should point out, John, before you're too deeply asleep, that this is the second tetanus injection I have received in the past twelve months and while I realise you're extremely tired, John, still I would think that you might be able to remember that single fact and—"

"Sherlock?"

"Yes, John?"

"I'm armed."

Silence.

"Good night, John."

"Good. Freaking. Night. Sherlock."

**OooOooO**

Galen fidgets in his room, then glances at his bed.

His lonely bed.

He tries to work on John's case notes, looks at his watch, picks up his pen, then gives it up as a lost cause. He tosses the pen down and wanders into the bathroom, checks his appearance, decides to take a quick shower. Maybe the warm water will calm him down.

Out of the shower, he brushes his teeth, wanders around in his robe. Still fidgety.

Finally, Galen Dennison takes his heart in his hands, dresses and leaves his room.

**OooOooO**

Maggie fidgets around the room, tries working on case notes, then glances at her watch. Finally, she runs a hot bath, pours in some bubbles and sinks into the warm water.

She leans back and shuts her eyes. Two minutes later, she opens her eyes, gives it up as a lost cause, lets the water out of the tub and brushes her teeth.

She pulls on her ice blue silk sleeping shirt and brushes her hair.

Finally, she sits at the writing table in her room and looks out the window.

"I'm such a coward," she says to the room.

The room doesn't answer.

A small knock on her door has her checking her watch again. 

"Maggie? It's Galen."

She opens the door and he stands there and smiles shyly at her.

"Mags, I know it's late. I – well, I couldn't sleep and thought maybe you might want a late night snack or to just walk around or to—"

She looks into his warm eyes - and feels herself fall.

"Galen?"

He looks into her emerald eyes – and his heart tumbles.

"Yes, Maggie?"

She opens her door all the way. His eyes widen as he looks at her.

" _God, he's adorable. How could I not have noticed? And he wants me. That much is obvious. Me. Maggie Oakton."_

She smiles gently. "Doctor Dennison? Come in this instant. And shut the bloody door."

He swallows. "Yes, Maggie."

He pulls the door closed behind him. Glances around the room, then back at those incredible green eyes. She looks at him with quiet amusement. In the background, he can hear music playing. It comes from her MP3 player, and tiny speakers, on the table by the bed.

" _I know this much is True …."_

He looks back at her, hoping.

She smiles again. Her heart is beating a rhythm in her chest.

Maggie Oakton closes the small distance between her and Galen Dennison. She reaches out and gently removes his glasses, then folds them and carefully places them on her bedside table. She turns to him.

"Galen?"

His breath comes in small gasps. His heart threatens to beat out of his chest.

"Maggie?"

"Stop talking. And take me to bed."

" _Him. She wants him. At last, she – stop thinking, you idiot, for once."_

"Galen? You're thinking way too much."

"Yes, Maggie."

 

**OooOooO**

**Wexham Park Hospital – Sherlock's Room**

Later that night, or very early the next morning ...

"John? I know you're awake. I heard the change in breathing pattern and—"

"Yes. Alright, Sherlock. I'm awake. The nurses keep coming in to check on you and it's bloody impossible to sleep here."

"John?"

"Still here, Sherlock."

Sherlock rolls to one side so he can see John as he lies in the reclining chair. Faint light comes in their hospital window, although the blinds are drawn. He cannot see John's eyes but knows they are open, looking at him. He adjusts his position to take pressure off the bruised rib and tucks one hand under his head. The gauze bandages around his wrists scratch his chin.

" _Razors,"_ he thinks. " _Neither one of us can –"_

"We can both shave in the morning, Sherlock," John says tiredly. "What is it? What did you want to ask me?" But he already knows.

"Why didn't you kill him?"

John shifts his position again, trying to get comfortable.

"Besides the fact it would be deliberate murder?  You know why, Sherlock."

Sherlock nods and is pleased that this slight movement doesn't hurt his head. His vision seems to be, if not excellent, pretty darn good. His eyes have already adjusted to the light and he looks at John, whose eyes are now closed.

"You didn't kill him because Mummy was there. And because –"

"Data, Sherlock, as you would say. We need data. We don't know who sent those bastards and if I'd killed or seriously injured him, that chance would be lost."

Sherlock nods again in the dark, watching the tiny movements of John's left hand as it picks at the rough cotton of the hospital blanket. " _One hour,"_ he thinks, " _before a nurse comes back in."_

There is a slight rustle as John shifts in the chair the better to see Sherlock in the dark room. "Besides, I wouldn't want to deprive Mycroft of the opportunity to find out who sent those murdering bastards. No way they thought of this on their own."

Sherlock is quiet as he thinks.

Sherlock looks at John, as if he knows what John is thinking, as if he can hear the soldier's thoughts.

" _Which he probably can,"_ John thinks.

"It's Him," says Sherlock.

"Can't be. He's dead. You said that. He's dead." He looks at the other man. "He IS dead, Sherlock," and it's a statement, not a question because there are things that Sherlock would lie to him about, John knows this, but this is not one of them.

"Yes," Sherlock says. "He's dead."

John can just make out the slight shine of Sherlock's clear eyes in the darkened room. Sherlock wishes he could see John's.

"But it's still Him. I don't know how, John, not yet. I only know it's Him. Somehow."

And John nods. Because Sherlock is right; he feels it in his bones.

They stay like that, looking toward each other in the dark. Finally, Sherlock reaches a bandaged hand through the rails of the hospital bed and John takes it in his warm hand.

**0600 Hours**

A few hours later, Sherlock is discharged early, at his vocal insistence. The discharge nurse checks his file, raises one eyebrow, then nods. Apparently orders have been left to let the man leave as soon as he feels up to it. She shrugs. A much harassed and extremely overworked doctor glances over him, looks at the notes taken by the night nurses, writes the necessary scrips for medication, then orders Sherlock to rest. John assures everyone and sundry that he will make certain he does. And that he will carefully watch him for any post-concussive symptoms. The doctor releases him in John's care. John wonders if the fact that he is – technically – no longer a certified doctor has made its way into all the databases yet. Apparently not.

They check on Mr. Jenkins, who appears to be just fine and thoroughly enjoying what amounts to a much-needed rest, so they leave him to it.

After a quick breakfast on the road – John eats – Sherlock nibbles - John drives them back to the mansion in comparative silence. He is grateful that Sherlock actually sleeps on the way.

**0920 Hours**

In their room, John watches Sherlock and Lori Hansen, as they go through Sherlock's things. He himself has already packed his duffle and dropped it by the front door. Years in the military have taught John to pack fast and light. He sighs and watches as Sherlock and Lori struggle with the detective's rather extensive wardrobe.

"Sherlock."

"John, I just want to get a few items. Then we'll be gone." The detective runs a hand through his hair, the white bandages around his wrists stand out against the dark curls. He grins at John.

"Why don't you take your new toy out for a spin, while Ms. Hansen and I pack up a few—"

"Sherlock, I do not want you lifting anything. There's nothing here, save a few clothes, that can't wait until we—"

"John. I won't lift anything beyond my carryon. I promise. Go ahead. I know you're dying to get back on that _thing._ And we can't take it to London with us, not yet. So just go, enjoy yourself."

John looks at Sherlock for a minute, considers how stubborn the love of his life can be, then mentally shrugs. It would be fun at that.

He suddenly grins and the detective feels his groin tighten. "All right, you idiot. Just one quick spin down through the woods, out and back. And you'd better be ready when I get back. I've had just about enough of this place."

Sherlock nods. "I promise. Now go."

Lori Hansen, who stands behind the detective, her arms full of various items, smiles fondly at both of them. "I'll keep an eye on him, Doctor Watson. I won't let him pick up anything heavy."

"All right, then. I won't argue with both of you. Besides –" John glances out the cracked window at the bright morning, then looks back at Sherlock, "Oh hell, yes! I'm dying to take her out on the road."

He digs the ignition key out of his jeans pocket and flips it in his hand. He pointedly looks at the detective who stands there in the light from the ruined window, which paints the dark curls a deep auburn. John feels his breath catch. The sooner they are away from this place, the sooner they can -

"And you'd better be ready, Sherlock."

Sherlock sighs. "Yes, John."

"All right then." John glances at Lori and sends her a quick grin, as well. "Back in a few."

He hurries away.

Sherlock looks after him, then down at the small nurse who stands by his side. "He's going to be insufferable from here on out, I can see that now."

Lori just laughs.

**0930 Hours**

"Cynthia? I'm done. Going out now." Her cleaning chum, Stacey, gathers up her supplies and heads down the long hallway. She and Stacy always do the ground floor and laundry area. Paul and his partner, Ryan?, she has a hard time remembering the man's name, always do the first floor. Which is fine with her.

"Just a tick," she says. She finishes polishing the entryway table, finishes with everything that has been asked of her, then gathers up her supplies and walks quickly down the long hallway that eventually leads to the door into the garage.

Her cleaning chum, Stacey, looks at her as she comes out of the building. "Took your time," she drawls.

"Had to finish up," Cynthia McReedy says. She tosses her supplies into the back of the van, nods at Paul who seems to be arguing with his partner over "that damned broken window and who do we call about that?" and puts the bucket with her personal cleaning rags into the boot of her car. She digs in her purse for her keys, then jangles them in front of Stacey's eyes. Stacey just shakes her head. "Not me. I'm knackered. And I've got another of these big ones to do later. Soon as you get us started, I'm sleeping."

Cynthia just nods. "Get in then. And let's get out of here."

She slips behind the wheel and looks behind her, then begins to backup. As she pulls forward and begins to move slowly down the long drive, she sees someone on a motorcycle roar out of the garage and come up behind her. She looks in the rear view mirror and narrows her eyes. She can clearly see the driver as he prepares to drive around her small car. Presumably he's heading down the drive and leaving the mansion. Her eyes widen. Impossible to miss that open face, slight tan. And the blonde hair.

Watson.

 _"But that's not – he's dead. Doctor John Watson is dead. The papers and telly all said so."_ It's not possible that she is sitting here in her car, in the bright sunshine, and watching a dead man as he drives a yellow motorcycle down the long drive.

She takes her foot off the accelerator, and the small car slows to a crawl. Stacey opens her eyes and glances over at her.

"Cyn? What's up? Why are you stopping?"

"Hush," Cynthia McReedy says. She brakes and her small car comes to a halt. The motorcycle comes around her and as the driver passes her by, he turns his head and grins at her, then guns the engine and he's off.

She watches in disbelief as he roars down the long drive, then leans to his right and takes the right turn in one swooping curve. Right. He turned right toward the wooded area, the open country. Not left toward London.

Cynthia stares at the apparition, not quite believing her eyes. A half-hearted honk from behind her startles her. She glances in her rearview mirror. It's Paul with the cleaning van. Paul and his partner. She shakes her head at him and the van driver, impatient to be off, pulls alongside her. Paul slows down to a stop and looks at Cynthia. He spreads his hands wide in a "what the fuck" gesture, but she just shakes her head and waves him off.

He shrugs and shakes his head at his partner, then pulls out in front of her and down the long drive.

_"Watson's alive. He's alive. How is this possible? Jeremy died because Watson was – wait. He was kidnapped, right? Disappeared? Then was rescued later and died in the ambulance on the way to hospital? Right? Right!"_

Cynthia looks down the drive.

**0940 Hours**

"Mr. Holmes? I think that's all you'll need, at least for a few days. Perhaps one of your brother's men can bring the rest of it later."

Sherlock nods. "Fine." He glances around the room, then looks down at the blood stains on the carpet in front of the window. Agent Lynn's blood. He frowns at the stain.

"Ms. Hansen? I believe I'm ready to go."

She follows his line of sight and shudders. "I think so, too, Mr. Holmes."

She bends to pick up his carry-on, but Sherlock intercepts her and lifts it.  She picks up the small box that holds their notebook pc and files, slings their coats over her arm and walks out the door in front of him.

At the front entryway, Sherlock drops his carry-on next to John's battered duffle and Lori bends to set the box down that holds their pc and to drape the coats on top of the two pieces of luggage. 

"Mr. Holmes? I want to go call Joe and check on the kitten outside. And I know Doctors Dennison and Oakton want to talk to Doctor Watson about his ongoing treatment. They should be along shortly."

He nods. "I'll wait here for John."

She flashes him a quick smile and hurries toward the kitchen area.

Sherlock walks outside and plunges his hands in the pockets of his trousers. He thinks he can hear the roar of the Harley some distance away . He stands in the bright morning sun to wait.

**0940 Hours**

Stacey glances over. "Look, do you want me to drive or what?"

Cynthia frowns after the path the motorcycle took, although she can no longer see it. Her head buzzes. Watson's alive. It's a lie. It's all been one huge lie.

"Cynthia? Cyn? Look, I've got to have a bit of a kip before I go to the next job. Could you please move your arse?"

Cynthia absently reaches over and turns the key in the ignition. _"A lie. Everything, All of it. One. Big. Lie. Her Jeremy is dead and all because of a lie. And Doctor John Watson is, apparently, alive. Alive and well and living the good life here in the country. Out here with the rich people, with the oh-so-wealthy Holmes family."_

It all makes sense now. Holmes and Watson. And – dear God in heaven – she's been helping clean their house! Her stomach rumbles and she nearly opens the car door to throw up on the grass. She shudders.

She's part of the lie. And she never knew it. Thea must have known. Thea Brown must have known all along. Suddenly, she does not regret her earlier actions one bit. " _Everything has been a lie_."

And as if to confirm this fact, here comes the motorcycle again – being driven by a dead man. Cynthia watches as the bike comes back down the drive from the woods, the sun glances off the brilliant paint and the chrome work flashes in the morning light. The driver revs the motor and turns left and up the drive toward the mansion, toward her and Stacey. The bike roars as the driver – Watson – takes the left turn in a flash, then it springs to life as he opens it up to make the long drive to the house. Toward the mansion. She loses it momentarily at the dip in the road.

Cynthia McReedy acts on a sudden impulse. She pulls her car back onto the driveway and guns the engine.

The motorcycle roars as the driver comes toward her. There's plenty of room and no one behind her. He will pass her by on the right. No worries.

When the bike is about 50 yards out, Cynthia twists the wheel, directly into the oncoming path of the motorcycle. And of Doctor John Watson.

"Cyn! What the fuck!" Stacey sits bolt upright and grabs her seat belt with both hands as the small car swerves into the path of the oncoming motorcycle.

John looks ahead at the small car, the same car he passed a few minutes earlier. He prepares to pass it. He accelerates a bit more. And then it's in front of him, directly in his path and there's nowhere to go.

"Cyn! Have you gone nuts? Cyn!"

And then Stacey screams as Jeremy McReedy's little sister twists the wheel, and aims straight for the yellow motorcycle.

John glances ahead at the car that has suddenly turned into his path. What in bloody hell? Has she lost her ever loving mind! She swerves again, bent on hitting him head on.  He veers the Harley to his left, straight onto the rolling lawn, then puts out his left foot as he nearly loses control of the bike. He tries to correct the sudden wobble, but the Harley's at a dreadful angle and the tires lose their purchase on the damp grass.

The Harley goes down and John goes with it. He deliberately releases the handles and pushes off with one foot, hits the ground and rolls. The bike accelerates for a few more feet, tilted on its left side, then falls over, its tires spin in the damp grass, before it stops dead.

From where he has tumbled over and over in the grass, John lies still and does not move.

In the doorway of the mansion, Sherlock sees John tumble and fall. He begins to run toward the doctor, with a slightly uneven gait. The fact that he has twelve stitches and a mild concussion do not deter him as he rushes to John Watson's side.

"John!"

Cynthia McReedy, her head buzzing, her heart full of pain, jams her foot down on the brake, and her small car shudders to a full stop, sideways on the grass. She looks toward John Watson's quiet form where he lies on the grass and all of her furious impulses dissipate in one quick rush. She bends her head toward the steering wheel, ignores Stacey as she fumbles for her door handle in her frenzy to get out of the car – and begins to sob.

Don Williams pulls the Rover out of the garage just as Cynthia McReedy aims her car with murderous intent at John Watson. He, too, watches as John goes down, arse over teakettle and comes to a stop in the grass. The driver of the car, a small female, just sits there, unmoving.

Don stops the Rover level with the car, and jumps out, his weapon drawn. He comes up to the driver's side and holds his gun steady on the driver. No need. She hugs the steering wheel and sobs her heart out. She does not respond to his demands that she exit the vehicle.

"Out of the car, now! Move!" he shouts. He ignores the second female who seems to be having hysterics on the other side. He looks at her briefly, realises she poses no threat, and keeps his gun aimed steadily on the driver. He angles to the side so he can watch her and still see what is happening to Captain Watson.

He can see Sherlock as he rushes up to John and bends over the man's quiet form.

"John!"

Watson pushes himself up off the grass with one shaking hand and looks around him for a second, then up at the detective.

"I'm okay, Sherlock. Just had the wind knocked out of me. Don't fuss."

And Don Williams shuts his eyes in relief.

 

**1010 Hours**

Mycroft takes the call while having his second cup of coffee. Deborah sits in front of him, making notes on her Blackberry.

"Cynthia McReedy!" he says in disbelief.

"Yes Sir," Agent Williams voice is quiet. "That's what her ID says. Part of the cleaning crew. She's been here several times before."

Mycroft frowns as he watches Deborah's fingers tap over the keys of her phone. He misses Anthea. The fact that she has decided to take a few days of hard earned vacation, at his insistence, does not negate the fact that he misses her sitting in that chair. He tells himself to stop frowning, else Deborah will think he is frowning at her.

He rubs a hand over his face. That same little something nags at his memory.

Agent Williams asks, "Sir? Do I call in the locals or—"

"No. Wait a second." He thinks. "Agent Williams, Ms. McReedy is the sister of Agent McReedy."

"I thought that might be the case, Sir. That you or Ms. Anthea might have got her the job to help her out, since –" All of his men know that Jeremy McReedy finally succumbed to his head injury a day earlier.

Mycroft frowns at Williams' words. _Got her the job to help her out._ Mycroft looks from Deborah's tapping fingers to the small stack of files to his left. He frowns again. Then reaches for the file third from the bottom and sets it in front of him. The label simply says TBrown.

"Agent Williams? I do not know why Ms. McReedy did what she did. I suspect it has to do with her brother's death. She undoubtedly recognized Doctor Watson. The shock of realizing he is not dead, as reported, might have served to –"

"Yes, Sir. Those thoughts passed through my mind, as well," Don says.

Mycroft taps one finger on Thea Brown's file. Comes to a decision. "Agent Williams? Ms. McReedy's actions are those of an unhinged mind. I feel she should be transported to hospital. An expert should look her over. And she most definitely is not to leave hospital once she is checked in. Not until we can get to the bottom of this."

"Yes, Sir. Understood. We'll get her there at once."

Mycroft hangs up his mobile and places it carefully to his left.

He flips open Thea Brown's file and begins to read. Deborah looks up at him, raises one eyebrow, then looks back down at her Blackberry. Her fingers tap over the keys.

 

**1040 Hours**

Lori comes into the dining room to begin sorting out the medical supplies. No one seems to be around.

The groan is slight but it has her hurrying to the far corner of the room, the same corner they placed the mattress in for Jake Lynn. She notes it is still there, as she rushes toward the sound.

Her eyes widen. "Doctor Watson!"

John sits huddled in the corner, away from the direct line of sight of the doors. He sits on the floor, his knees drawn up to his chest, and his arms wrapped around his legs. He shakes uncontrollably. His face is pale and she can see the sweat pool along his hair line. She kneels in front of him and places one small hand on his shoulder. The tremors that race through his body reverberate under her fingertips.  There is a darkening bruise on his forehead.  Its match can be seen on one wrist.

"John."

He manages to raise his head and speak through gritted teeth. "Hurry. Don't ... let them see me like this. Please, Lori, just ... hurry." His voice shakes. He shuts his eyes and groans.

Without a moment's thought, she straightens and dashes to the end of the table. The small case that holds Doctor Dennison's injections is there, along with a few of his case notes. She wonders where Dennison is.

Lori flips open the case, grabs one of the hypos, then snatches the small box of alcohol wipes from the medical supply cache. She rushes back to John.

**1045 Hours**

"Mr. Holmes? I need to – can I ask you something?"

Sherlock stands in the front entryway to watch as Mycroft's men bundle the small, handcuffed woman away in the waiting SUV. He wonders where John has got to in the melee.  He turns at the sound of Lori's voice. Her eyes are wide and her manner frantic. His eyes narrow. Something has happened. She is actually wringing her hands and it's seldom that he sees – Ah. Something has occurred and she wants to attract his attention and his alone. It must be something that involves only him and – _John._ Something has happened to John. John said he was going to lie down for a few moments until they were ready to leave.

His heart begins to race.

He looks at her, then nods, almost casually. "Of course. What do you want to ask?" He moves in front of her to block her frantic movements from Mycroft's men, two of whom are coming toward them down the far hallway.

"It's - in the main dining room. The carved buffet. Doctor Dennison said it was made of mahogany, like the table here," as she talks, she begins to walk past the round entryway table with its polished and gleaming surface, toward the dining room.

As he passes the entryway table, bent on following her, Sherlock frowns slightly at the slightest of buzzing sounds. His watch must be malfunctioning or else Ms. Hansen's. At any rate, one of them needs to check their watch batteries. He comes to the sliding doors that separate the formal dining room from the rest of the house.  They are closed. The doors have not been closed the entire time they have been here.

Lori hurriedly pushes the doors open. "It's the buffet here in the corner. I just wondered if you knew where it was made." Mycroft's men pass them by, nod at both of them and go on out toward the front entrance.

Sherlock casually puts his hand against Lori Hansen's back to usher her into the dining room. Just as casually, he turns to pull the doors to again.

And turns to see Lori hurry to the far corner and kneel in front of John.

"John."

Sherlock keeps his voice low as he bends over his partner, who shakes like a tree in a storm. Sweat pours from every orifice.

John's dark eyes are closed and he is huddled against the wall in the corner, close to the bed they had previously put down for Jake Lynn.

"Sherlock?" His voice is hoarse. 

"I'm here, John."

"Mr. Holmes? I gave him an injection. I would never have left him but he insisted I find you," Lori assures him. "He – his reactions have not been as marked as I have noted before."

Sherlock nods and moves to gather John up in his embrace. Of course, they have all been idiots. John spent the entire night in the hospital with him. He missed his scheduled injection. Add to that the attack by that blasted woman and - 

John leans his head, which shakes as with fever, against Sherlock's steady arms. Sherlock wraps his arms with their bandaged wrists around John's shoulders.

"John. It's all right. I'm here. Let's just give it a little time."

The detective looks up at Hansen, who still crouches next to them. Her brown eyes are huge in her face. She bites her lip and looks at him worriedly.

"Where's Dennison?" Sherlock asks. 

"I think everyone is packing and going over their notes. I know they haven't come down yet. I can go find him?"

Sherlock wonders slightly at her words – " _they haven't come down yet"_ – then lets it go. He holds onto John, who groans slightly and puts out his hands to grab onto Sherlock's shirtfront.

He gasps. "Don't let the - men see me like this. Don't. I'm nearly over it ... I think. Just –" his voice breaks off with a harsh moan.

Sherlock's eyes close in pain and he reopens them to look into Lori Hansen's sympathetic brown gaze.

"Ms. Hansen, go out into the corridor and keep watch. Shut the door behind you. Don't let anyone in here."

"What do I tell people, I mean if Dr. Dennison or Maggie or anyone comes to—"

His voice sounds harsh to his own ears. "I don't care what you tell them. Tell them anything you want. Tell them we're shagging on the bloody dining room table, but keep them out of here until I open those damn doors!"

Lori nods and hurries to follow his instructions. Sherlock hears the sliding doors open, then close behind her.

He bends his head toward his partner's blonde hair. He shuts his eyes and holds on to John's shaking form.

It doesn't take long. He waits for John's head to snap back and his spine to arch. But that never happens. John continues to shake and his small groans pierce Sherlock's heart like a blade. Slowly the tremors become more slight until, finally, they stop altogether.

The two men remain crouched together in the corner of the room for several minutes. John's head lies against Sherlock's shoulder, his eyes shut.

"Breathe, John. Just slow deep breathes, okay? It's over now," Sherlock whispers into the dark blonde hair. He makes a mental note to revise his description of John's hair. It is anything but dark blonde now, with its premature white strands. He rests his chin against John's head and nuzzles the strands with his lips.

"Everything's going to be all right, John. Just rest now."

He inhales the scent of John's hair. John's hair smells like sun and the woods by the small creek. He turns his head and absently rubs his cheek in the silken mass. He plants small kisses along the hairline.

John makes a slight sound and Sherlock realises the Doctor ( _Captain?_ ) is quietly laughing.

"You bloody git. Are you chatting me up?" he asks in a muffled tone. John pulls back slightly to look into Sherlock's steady grey-green eyes. "There are good times, Sherlock and bad times. And then there are truly inappropriate times."

Sherlock smiles gently and brushes one bandaged hand through John's fringe.

"Hush, you idiot. Just rest." He glances to their left. "There's a mattress here. Want to lie down?"

"And it's covered with Jake Lynn's blood. No thanks," John murmurs. He moves slightly and Sherlock shifts so the doctor can sit more comfortably on the carpet and rest his back against the wall. Sherlock sits with him and leans against the wall next to John. He pulls the doctor's head over against his shoulder. John goes willingly.

Sherlock holds onto his soldier and wonders idly why the cleaning crew didn't remove the bed. Presumably they have arranged for someone to come fetch it. He lets the thought go as being unimportant.

"That – wasn't as bad as I thought it would be," John says quietly.

"No. No, John, it wasn't. Well -" Sherlock brushes his lips against John's forehead. "I did not suffer through it so I have no frame of reference, but—"

"Give it a rest, Love. Just this one time, all right?"

Sherlock nods. "All right, John."

The two men sit on the floor for a while, in companionable silence.

A few minutes later, as John makes a movement to stand up, Sherlock opens his eyes and looks, again, at the bed left on the floor.

And he remembers. Something from when he was a prisoner in the clearing _. Something to do with that damn envelope. Something …_

His eyes widen _. They've let everyone go. Everyone._

"John?"

 

**1135 Hours**

"The cleaning crew, Sherlock?"

Mycroft taps his pen against the edge of the leather blotter. He looks across the room at the artwork on the walls, the books, the empty chairs He sees none of it.

"Must have been one of them, Mycroft. And Ms. McReedy's actions this morning seem to indicate it was she who planted the envelope with John's letter. She certainly had access to the entryway table and your men have been in the habit of placing the post on that table. It would have been child's play to plant the envelope there. I thought of it days ago but was assured the crew had been vetted."

"Yes, yes, Sherlock, I see your point." He taps again with the pen. The file with the label TBrown still sits in front of him. "I understand the importance of finding out who planted that letter for you, and John, to find, Sherlock, but surely the threat has been neutralized now."

His brother's voice sounds harsh in his own ears. "Has it, Mycroft? John was attacked this morning, nearly killed in front of me, and by a damn slip of a girl in a car. You have the three buggers who kidnapped our mother. What have you learned from them?"

Mycroft sighs. "That matter is being taken care of, dear brother, I assure you."

"Well whatever you're doing, _dear brother,_ you're not doing it fast enough."

Mycroft leaves Thea Brown's file, stands and crosses to the window behind him. He looks out on London.

"Is everyone preparing to leave the mansion?" he asks tiredly. The few hours of sleep he was able to get did not seem to make much difference.

"Yes. John needs to have a quick meeting with Oakton and Dennison. I believe Dennison is considering moving John over to oral dosages, rather than the infernal injections. And once all that is sorted, we're off."

Mycroft rubs his tired eyes. There's going to be hell to pay concerning the various damages to the house. At the very least, the room that Sherlock and John occupied will have to be worked on, the window replaced and carpeting torn up.

He's missing something. And he doesn't like the feeling.

"All right, Sherlock. I'll feel better when all of you are out of there. But, Sherlock?"

"Yes, Mycroft?"

He listens to the tone of Sherlock's voice – insufferable, yes, but something else – Ah. His brother is as tired as he is. He ignores Sherlock's tone and concentrates on his words.

"Sherlock. Kindly remember that Doctor John Watson is a dead man. And you are nearly fatally injured. If your intentions are to return to Baker Street –"

"You said the damage had been repaired and you bloody well believe we're going home, Mycroft."

"Stop interrupting. John is dead. There are bound to be people who recognize him. And you, of course. It might make for certain awkward –"

Sherlock interrupts him again. "Then you had better take whatever steps you intend to take, Mycroft, to bring him back to life again."

Mycroft sighs, and it's a long suffering sigh. "I have started that process, Sherlock. And I'll let you know what we find out about the cleaning crew."

"Good."

Sherlock hangs up without preamble and drops his mobile in his pocket. Agent Williams handed it to him earlier and he's grateful that it's none the worse for wear after lying in the woods. He thinks of calling Mycroft back, then rejects it. His head begins to pound. He moves to stand at the tall kitchen windows and stares out into the garden. He decides not to say anything to John about the headache. Presumably the medication will take care of that.

Behind him, he hears the doors open.

"Sherlock? Ready to go?"

He turns to look at John.  The light from the early morning sun highlights the white strands in his hair.

Sherlock nods. "Ready, John."

At the entryway, Sherlock bends to pick up his carry-on, hesitates, then straightens up.

John already has his duffle slung over his shoulder. He picks up both their coats. He glances up at Sherlock. "Now what?"

"My notes. Bloody hell." Sherlock runs a hand through the dark curls, winces when he encounters the stitches in his scalp. 

"John, I left my notes in the lab."

"Sherlock, for fuck's sake! They aren't important. We can fetch them later."

The detective shakes his head, slightly. John notes the crystalline eyes are nearly green this morning. And ever so slightly unfocused. Sherlock must be experiencing head pain. His eyes narrow.

"They're very important, John."

"Sherlock, I swear to God –"

"John, it won't take me more than ten minutes. Those notes are vitally important to my research on Franks' drug. And I do not intend to leave them behind."

He very pointedly does not mention that he still has samples of the filthy drug locked up in the lab. He did not go through all of his supply when he dispatched James Moriarty. He doesn't intend to leave those behind, either.

He looks at John with a slightly pleading expression, puts on his best puppy dog face.

"John, please. Just a few minutes more. And we're off."

John drops his duffle to the floor at his feet. He crosses his arms.  "Fine. Then I'll come with. God knows, if I leave you alone in that lab for more than a minute, you'll start on something else, and it'll be hours before either of us see you again."

"John – I want to get out of here as much as you. And I don't require any assistance to –"

"Doctor Watson? John?" Lori hurries up to them.  She looks at John Watson and her professional gaze assesses his physical situation in a glance.

He turns to look at the tiny nurse. 

"John? Doctor Dennison just texted me. He's coming down with his bags and asks that you please give him a few minutes to go over your treatment. He'll meet you in the library, that is, if that's okay."

John runs a hand through his short spikes. "Yeah.  I suspect it has to be all right. I had one dose this morning. I'll have to arrange for the next one." He looks over – and realises that Sherlock has vanished. 

" _Like a ruddy cat,"_ John thinks, not for the first time. Well, at least he knows where the detective has gone and where to find him.

He nods at Lori. "Please tell him I'll meet him in the library."

Lori smiles. She pulls out her phone and begins to text while she walks back toward the kitchen area.

John reaches into his pocket for his phone, which Sherlock returned to him earlier. He looks at it, then realises he hasn't called Mycroft to ask him to fix the ruddy thing. Useless. Utterly useless if he can't text. He snorts in disgust and drops the phone back into his pocket.

He glances at their bags on the floor at his feet, then looks outside at the bright morning. One of Mycroft's men has already moved the rather - dented - Harley to the garage. Presumably, someone will be found to repair the slight damage. Tiredly,  John begins to make his way to the library.

As he passes the entryway table, he frowns at the slight buzzing sound and reminds himself to check his watch battery.

 

**1145 Hours**

Galen glances at Maggie and blushes. She finds his shy gaze charming.

"I'm going to speak with John now about his treatment," he says. "I'd appreciate it if all three of us could –"

Finished with dressing, Maggie touches Galen gently on his wrist. They look at each other, Galen's eyes widen - and Doctor Galen Dennison drops his case notes on the floor to gather her up into his arms.

"A few minutes more won't hurt," he mumbles into her dark hair.

Maggie laughs.

 

**1155 Hours**

Sherlock unlocks the lab, then clicks on the overhead lights. He is in a hurry and his movements are quick and precise. He shuts and locks the door behind him, force of habit, since this is the place he keeps Franks' addictive drug. He pockets the key, then glances around. He gathers up his notebooks and the case that holds the few remaining samples of Frank's drug. He places them together at the end of the counter, then rummages in the cabinet under the sink for a box to hold them. At the door, he hesitates, looks around again. It certainly wouldn't hurt to at least box up his microscope. It is his favorite and he will definitely need it.  He looks for the box he always packs it in.

 

**1155 Hours**

Lori coaxes the kitten to come closer, then reaches out a hand. The tiny creature lets her pet its soft head. She smiles. Yes. She definitely needs to find a box or something. Joe will just have to lump it. No way that she is going to leave the little thing here to fend on its own. Sherlock should have some boxes in his lab, if she can't find any in the garage, that is. She straightens up.

 

**1155 Hours**

Rob Enders checks in with all the agents currently in the manor. Two of the relief agents have already been sent to take this Cynthia McReedy person to hospital. That leaves Don Williams, Terry Roaman, two more relief men and himself. He reads the report Don Williams gives him. Then lifts his head to look into Don's eyes.

"Honest to God, Don. I leave for one night. One freaking night."

Don Williams smiles grimly.

 

**1155 Hours**

John Watson pushes open the two huge doors into the library, crosses the room, and takes his usual seat in front of the tall windows. He glances at his watch, notes it is working perfectly.  He must have been mistaken about the slight humming sound.

He looks out at the brilliant light of morning and wishes everyone would just hurry up so he and Sherlock can get the hell out of there.

The doors open. Maggie and Galen come into the room together. They are both smiling.

"Good morning, John."

Galen seats himself and bends over to pull his notes out of his briefcase. Maggie pulls up another chair to sit next to them. The three chairs form a semi-circle in front of the tall windows.

Maggie looks at John and he notes that something has changed, some dynamic is different. She smiles genially at him. "First things first. How's Sherlock?"

John opens his mouth to speak.

 

**1200 Hours**

Right on schedule, the mansion begins to explode around them.

**OooOooO**


	22. Chapter 22

**These lads in their current incarnation belong to the BBC and not to me, and in their original incarnation to the Estate of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, may his name be forever Blessed!**

**THE BOYS OF BAKER STREET**

**CH. 22**

**Wherein the mansion gets a much-needed face lift - and Sherlock renews his vows.**

**PROMISES: PAIN; ANGST; BRAVERY UNDER FIRE; COMMAND DECISIONS; EVERLASTING LOVE AND COMMITMENT (the promise of) ; ATTEMPTED MURDER; CHEMICAL HALLUCINATIONS; VIOLENCE; AND THE VERY REAL POSSIBILITY OF THE TOTAL, ABSOLUTELY HORRID, NIGHTMARISHLY PAINFUL DEATH OF DAMN NEAR EVERY SINGLE PERSON IN THIS NARRATIVE, INCLUDING OUR HEROES.**

**OooOooO**

AUTHOR'S NOTE: This chapter occasionally refers to events in my first novel, **_THERE BUT FOR THE GRACE OF JOHN WATSON._** If you are reading **_BOYS_** , but have not yet had the opportunity to read **GRACE,** you are reading backwards (WELL DONE, YOU!) You might not "get" all the references herein. Also, your reading experience will not have the same intensity that I worked so hard to create for you.

**OooOooO**

**1155 Hours**

John Watson pushes open the two huge doors into the library, crosses the room, and takes his usual seat in front of the tall windows. He glances at his watch, notes it is working perfectly, then looks out at the bright day.

He wishes everyone would just hurry up so he and Sherlock can get the hell out of here.

The door opens. John looks up as Galen Dennison comes into the room, followed by Maggie Oakton. They are both smiling.

"Good morning, John." Galen seats himself and bends over to pull his notes out of his briefcase. Maggie pulls up another chair to sit next to them. The three chairs form a semi-circle in front of the tall windows.

Maggie looks at John and he notes that something has changed, some dynamic is different. She smiles genially at him. "First things first. How's Sherlock?"

**1200 Hours**

Right on schedule, the mansion begins to explode around them.

**OooOooO**

**FORTY-EIGHT HOURS EARLIER –**

Ronald Adair sits in the seat vacated by his predecessor, James Moriarty, and watches the large screen as it descends from the ceiling.

Within two minutes, all of the senior members of the Board of Directors are in front of their computer screens, present and accounted for at this virtual meeting.

Adair can see each member as their visages appear in boxes on the flat monitor.

"Thank you for your attendance. I wish to bring you up to speed on our current project. I'll make this brief."

He picks up a bound report from the marble surface in front of him. He holds it in such a way that all attendees can clearly see the cover and what is printed on it.

To his right, the glass wall looks out onto a beautiful day on Lake Lucerne. He ignores the view.

"As all of you know, my predecessor and I were at odds on how best to utilize the talents of this cabal and how to achieve our ultimate goal."

He looks from the report to the screen. Each Board member feels somehow as if Adair is addressing him or her directly. They all swallow and try not to fidget in their seats.

Adair meets each set of eyes in turn, and mentally ticks off names. Parkson. Green. Brown. He meets each of the sets of eyes in turn. He nods. Good. Everyone present and accounted for. With the exception of Miles Jackson and Crandall. He frowns at that and makes a tick mark next to Jackson's name in his mind. Crandall is extremely ill, the rumors have it, and not expected to live for long. Pity. He'll have to replace the man soon.

"That goal remains, simply, to root out what we feel to be a highly subversive element that has crept into the upper levels of our government and to undermine and ultimately eliminate this element."

He clears his throat and gestures with the report in his hand. The single word, MANIFESTO, in bold black ink and centered on the page, is highly visible to those who watch their screens.

"Mr. Moriarty felt that these _aspirations_ were needless and unimportant. He made his feelings quite clear in our last meeting with each other. At the same time that all of us present here were working toward the ultimate achievement of a more, let us say _cohesive_ , state of affairs here in the U.K., Moriarty was busily embarked upon his own agenda, which amounted to little more than a personal vendetta against one specific individual, to wit the well-known Consulting Detective, Sherlock Holmes."

None of the board members say a word. They all watch Adair.

Adair lays the report down in front of him and leans forward. "This vendetta upon the part of an otherwise brilliant mind," (a few members begin to squirm in their seats) "was puerile in intent, at best."

He fixes each member with a cold stare, then sits back slightly.

"In order to achieve this vendetta against Sherlock Holmes, he enlisted the aid of a soldier of fortune, one Sebastian Moran, to destroy the constant companion and sexual partner of Mr. Holmes, a former Army surgeon and Captain, Doctor John Watson. By targeting Doctor Watson through a campaign which included kidnapping Watson and then forcing upon him a chemical addiction via a so-called designer drug, James Moriarty hoped to bring about the ruination, if not the actual death, possibly via suicide, of Sherlock Holmes." *

Adair sits back slightly, but his eyes never leave the screen.

"While this last statement may sound fantastic in the extreme, if you have read the reports I have provided you of Sherlock Holmes's younger years, of his medical and psychiatric problems which clearly show his previous addiction to various substances, and his subsequent near fatal deliberate destruction at his own hands, then you know that Sherlock Holmes' personality is – or was self-destructive in nature and that of the confirmed addict. Taking into account his near complete recovery from that addictive and destructive behavior just prior to and since meeting Watson and of his ongoing ability to forebear from such behavior because of his obvious attachment to Watson, then Moriarty's plan does not seem that farfetched. Given Sherlock Holmes' near total dependency upon Doctor John Watson not only as a professional colleague, but also as the man who, let us say, tamed the _Mad Man of London,_ then Moriarty's belief that Holmes would self-destruct, upon the death of Watson, does not appear to be fantastic or extreme at all."

"However, by allowing his personal vendetta to supersede his own brilliant capacity for organized crime, Moriarty's actions brought about the murder of Mr. Moran. Whose hand actually did the deed, we will never know, although I am of the inclination that Moran met his fate at the hands of John Watson, a former Army surgeon and Captain in the RAMC, and a known crack shot. Although, of course, Moran might have also been dispatched by Holmes. Again, we cannot be certain and it is of relatively little importance now."

Adair takes a sip of water, sets the glass back down. Outside the glass window, a cold breeze creates ripples on the surface of the lake and shreds the cotton-white clouds.

"In addition to the murder of Sebastian Moran, two valued medical researchers, Dr. R. Reese and Dr. Marcus Franks, also disappeared. I have firsthand knowledge that Dr. Reese met his death at the hands of Mr. Moran, at Moriarty's instigation, and we can only assume that Dr. Franks was dispatched, by either Holmes or Watson, the details of which are also unimportant."

"A few days ago, in this very office, James Moriarty was deliberately murdered in a particularly heinous manner. From the description of the perpetrator given us by Moriarty's personal administrative assistant, his killer could only have been Sherlock Holmes. The assumption is that Holmes killed Moriarty as retaliation for his actions against John Watson. You have the details of this in the report I sent you earlier."

Adair taps the report in front of him, it is bound in a dark crimson color.

"Our goal remains. Moriarty's vision was limited, to say the least. He focused his not inconsiderable energies on eliminating Holmes the younger, while totally ignoring the real threat to this country, the real power behind the throne, so to speak, Holmes the elder - Mycroft Holmes, the elder brother of this Sherlock Holmes and the eldest son of Victoria Regina Holmes."

"The Holmes family has been and remains in good stead with the current monarchy – and that includes the father of Mycroft and Sherlock Holmes. However, we will not speak of Dr. Holmes at this time. Needless to say, I have people working on that problem."

"To recap, our plan - agreed upon by every member of this cabal – is simple: bring about the political downfall of the Holmes family, eliminate its influence on this government – and monarchy, although of less importance - by first destroying Mycroft Holmes on a personal level – to wit, the concerted campaign to embarrass and disenfranchise his brother's companion and sexual partner, Doctor Watson. And by so doing, bring about the eventual fall from grace, as well as the death, of Sherlock Holmes. The final goal remains: the deliberate dismantling of Mycroft Holmes' entire organization and to subsequently, bring about his ruination and personal disgrace."

"This ruination could not fail to have a ripple effect upon not only the political side but more importantly the covert side of the British government. We would then be in a position to step in with our own people. And bring about much needed change."

Adair fixes the sets of eyes with a firm stare.

"It was subsequently decided to make an example of certain individuals who have befriended both Holmes and Watson. And it was to this end that an explosive device was planted in the automobile driven by a nurse who helped Watson escape from his prison in the Wellington."

Adair sighs and laces his fingers together. "Regrettably, the explosion did not, as intended, kill the intended target, but instead resulted in the death of a member of the Police Force, a Sergeant Donovan, and as a consequence of her death, Detective Inspector Lestrade of New Scotland Yard vowed to bring her killers to justice. This was a regrettable happenstance and would undoubtedly make for trouble for this cabal, going forward, had not the individual responsible for planting the device been apprehended by the police shortly afterward."

"A much reported and we feel false story was recently circulated to all branches of the media that Doctor Watson was accidentally killed in a traffic accident, said accident also seriously injuring the younger of the Holmes brothers – Sherlock."

"It was during an aborted attempt to assassinate Sherlock Holmes, reportedly in hospital, gravely injured as of a result of that traffic accident, that our operative was arrested. He remains in custody as not only the prime suspect in the police officer's murder, but also the only suspect in the attempted murder of Holmes."

Adair looks at the screen. All eyes are upon him.

"These are the events that you know. Here are the events that have occurred since our last meeting."

"After the arrest of our operative during the failed attempt on Holmes' life, and given the circumstances surrounding Doctor Watson's kidnapping and subsequent problems from drug addiction, I felt the timing of the reported "traffic accident" begs the question that this story was, indeed, false. I believe this story was circulated to give Watson an opportunity to recover from his ordeal and drug addiction brought about by James Moriarty and to give both Sherlock Holmes and Mycroft Holmes time to bring about the downfall not only of James Moriarty – but of his entire network, if possible."

Although the Board members are not in the same room, they still glance at each other's faces on the various screens.

"Consequently, I dispatched my own operative, a successor to Mr. Moran if you will, one Lieutenant Michael Billings, known to a few of you, to the U.K. Mr. Billings was to subtly initiate himself into the company of mourners at Watson's supposed memorial service, and to ascertain whether or not Watson was, in fact, deceased. Mr. Billings performed his job admirably. Doctor John Watson, it seems, is alive and did not, in fact, perish in the auto accident. The reports of his demise and of Holmes' injuries were, indeed, false."

"Our campaign to discredit Holmes' partner, Watson, and to bring about the eventual downfall of Mycroft Holmes' organization involved input from several of you. It was Reggie Fortesman's idea to create the near total destruction of the domicile of Holmes and his live-in companion, Doctor Watson. The widespread damage was reported to be the result of an "anti-gay" cabal; however, the real purpose of this action was to recover certain items of importance, i.e., surveillance and recording devices, which were planted in and around their flat, by the elder Holmes, as a means of keeping tabs on his younger brother and of eliminating any threat to their persons before it could occur. It was and is hoped that these recordings will provide us much needed information on Sherlock Holmes' recent activities. Also, we hoped to discover any means in the form of written or recorded missives of any nature that could be used in our campaign against the Holmes family."

"This campaign included the spread of homophobic and antigay rumors and stories which were circulated wildly to the press and all other media outlets."

Here Adair looks up at all the Board members. "The fact that this campaign failed utterly is due to the public's not inconsiderable tolerance for aberrant behavior upon the part of its folk heroes. In this instance, Sherlock Holmes and Doctor Watson."

"The member responsible for this campaign has since been eliminated, but not by us. Reggie Fortesman died in his club, ostensibly of a heart attack. We feel that this death was a deliberate assassination upon the part of Mycroft Holmes, as we have reliable reports that Holmes the senior met with Fortesman immediately preceding his death by natural causes. In this one instance, we obviously underestimated the far-reaching power of Mycroft Holmes."

He looks up at the screen with a grim nod. "It will not happen again."

Adair shakes his head and adds, "This is a shame as Lord Fortesman was a valued member of our organization. He will be missed."

He sits back, clasps his hands and sighs, apparently deeply aggrieved. None of the people on the screen are fooled one bit.

"Mr. Billings has now ascertained that both gentlemen – Holmes the younger and Doctor Watson - are 'holed up' for want of a better description, in a country manor, close to the township of Ascot, where Doctor Watson is being attended by not one but three medical personnel – a psychological counselor; an addiction psychiatrist and the Holmes family physician himself."

"I had originally ordered Mr. Billings and certain compatriots of his to bring about the death by assassination of both Sherlock Holmes and Doctor John Watson. However, subsequent events have changed that directive. I will now order Mr. Billings to capture Holmes and Watson, alive. Both individuals will then be used as bargaining chips in obtaining the release of our people, currently being held, we believe, by the organization headed by Mycroft Holmes. I refer, of course, to Miles Jackson. And, possibly, to Lord Crandall, as we have no evidence to support his supposed fatal illness at this time."

Adair looks straight ahead at the flat screen monitor.

"Once our people are released and we have firm evidence of this, both Holmes and Watson will, of course, be killed outright."

"After the elimination of these two persons takes place, we can then proceed with our goal of dismantling Mycroft Holmes' organization, precipitating his eventual fall from grace and from the high regard of this government."

"I should state at this time, that I have given specific orders that the Holmes matron, Victoria Regina Holmes, is not to be harmed. We feel her ultimate fall from favor will be brought about by her elder son's failure to eliminate the threat directed against his brother and against Doctor Watson and also to point up her immediate family's let us say _regrettable_ choice in personal associations."

"This ends our meeting, unless any of you have anything further of interest concerning our current project?"

All members look back at Adair, with the slight exception of Thea Brown, who fidgets slightly in her seat.

Ronald Adair notes this and raises an eyebrow.

"Thea? Is there anything you wish to add?"

She shakes her head, coughs into her hand, then raises a glass of water to her lips and shakes her head again. "Sorry. No. Nothing to add."

Adair nods. "Very well then. This meeting is adjourned."

OooOooO

Thea Brown shuts down the virtual meeting by simply closing the web browser and then turning off her personal computer. She sits there, sips at her water. And frowns.

" _There is no need for Adair to know everything. And it is not as if my plans are going to interfere in any way with his. Well, they might bring about the destruction of Holmes and Watson, but so what? Adair is being ridiculous. Mycroft Holmes will not let any of our people go scot-free, even to obtain the safe release of Holmes and Watson. So if my plans involve their – deaths – again, it's of little importance. Regina Holmes has slighted me one too many times. And one too many times I have had to put up with the undeniable favor that she has curried with Her Majesty. Well, all of that is about to change."_

"Let's see how she gets on without her beloved, much ballyhooed family home, her heritage to brag about, to lord over my head," Thea muses aloud. She sets the water glass down and rings for her tea.

OooOooO

**1200 Hours**

The explosion rocks the floor under their feet, shakes the walls around them, and rattles the tall library windows next to them. Maggie instinctively puts out a hand to grip the arm rest of the chair she sits in. Her bright green eyes widen in confusion and she watches, incredulous, as several dozen books topple out of their slots in the tall shelves and fall to the Oriental carpeting.

Maggie turns her head to John and murmurs "Quake?" She has lived through numerous quakes of varying intensities both in Texas and in California. She has no idea what the threat of an earthquake is in the U.K. – but this doesn't feel the same.

Galen's eyes widen and he, too, grips the arm rests of his chair. His case notes on John fall, unheeded, to the Oriental carpet under their feet.

John, who knows exactly what it is, shakes his head firmly and is on his feet in an instant, tugging at Maggie's left wrist as he stands. "That was no earthquake. That was a bloody bomb!"

Galen stumbles to his feet, slightly off kilter, and bends to retrieve his notes.

"Leave them!" John hollers, as he continues to literally yank Maggie out of the library and through the tall doors by her wrist. Startled, Galen stumbles after them both, but he still wants to stop to retrieve his notes. _This cannot be happening. This is surreal._

At the library doors, John holds one of them open and pushes Maggie through. "Come on!" he shouts at Galen, who finally abandons his briefcase and rushes after them. John waits until both of them are through the doors, then he dashes down the long hall toward the front entryway, still tugging impatiently at Maggie Oakton's wrist. She trots alongside him, her breath coming in quick gasps.

" _Sherlock! Get the civilians to safety; go back for his men. Where is Hansen_? _Christ, is it safe to leave the house? Is there another sniper out there, waiting to pick us off? What am I fucking saying – the place may be rigged. Get them out! Sherlock!"_

As he runs, John's mind races - " _From the sound of the blast, it came somewhere near the middle of the mansion, definitely on this level. Possibly the study? Sounded like the study. Perhaps the side hallways are still intact then and the men can reach us. Where is everyone? Get them out, then call Enders. Sherlock? Is the detective still in his lab? And can he get out and back up the stairs?_

" _And was that a bomb – a god damned IED? And how the hell did they plant them? How many more are there?"_

As they near the front entryway, Agent Enders intercepts them.

OooOooO

Sherlock leans over to retrieve a box from under the laboratory sink. He hisses as his swollen hands and fingers and aching wrists rebel against the slight motion needed to clutch the box edges. He has already noted the slight pink stain around the white bandages that encircle his wrists, undoubtedly from his insistence on carrying his bag to the front of the mansion. John is going to be _very_ upset, to say the least. He tries again to grab the box and out of nowhere, a huge wall of sound echoes around him, and the ceiling suddenly shakes. Plaster dust begins to rain down on his dark head.

Startled by the explosion, Sherlock tries to rise. He makes it halfway before he has to stop and lean against the cabinet doors. His head hurts abominably, and whether from the simple change in position, or the sudden slight change in pressure, the pain in his skull explodes and he winces and grabs at the counter edge. He blinks, momentarily stunned, then takes a deep breath and attempts to straighten up once more.

It's no good. The pounding in Sherlock's skull reaches a crescendo and he groans once and falls to his knees on the tiled floor. He pants against the onslaught of pain, then grits his teeth and looks around cautiously.

" _What the hell? Was that – could that have been a bomb? Where the hell is everyone? What is happening? John !"_

He glances upward at the small but steady rain of dust and plaster, winces as the overhead laboratory lights send daggers shooting through his skull. He quickly lowers his head, then fumbles in his pocket for his mobile, all the while he keeps his eyes closed against the onslaught of the pain and of the dust that seems to be raining down from the ceiling. He remains on his knees on the cool tiled floor and does not attempt to get back to his feet.

Before he can call out, his phone buzzes in his hand.

_OooOooO_

Rob Enders looks up from the report he has just read, straight into Don Williams' startled eyes. He and Williams stand in the garage, going over Don's report of the morning's events and the arrest of Cynthia McReedy and her companion, after her attempt to kill John Watson.

Enders looks at Williams, then around the open garage and out into the bright morning.

"That was a fucking bomb!"

"Shite!" Don says. He glances around as the walls shake slightly, then seem to settle down. He looks at the automobiles currently in the garage, then back at Enders.

Enders nods. "Get the vehicles out of the garage and away from the house. We can't take the chance of the petrol tanks going up if there's another one. Where's Roaman?"

Agent Williams answers him as he rushes toward the first vehicle, the Rover. "He should be on patrol around the perimeter! I sent Phillips and Cary down to the clearing to make certain the barrier was totally dismantled and to look for more ordinance."

"All right. I'll call around and find everyone! Get all the vehicles out as quickly as possible and then check in. We've got to find the civilians and get them out. Go round the front entryway once you're done and see if any of them are out already!" Enders holds up his mobile as point of reference, then begins thumbing numbers as Don Williams nods and begins to back the Rover out of the garage.

He leans out of the open driver's window and shouts to be heard. "What about the security company? That was bound to set off the alarms, that is, unless it destroyed the circuits altogether —"

Enders shakes his head as he hurries into the house. He hollers back at Don. "Can't be arsed about it now. If they show up, they show up. As long as we keep them out of the house itself! Roaman? Where the fuck are you?" He shouts into his mobile as he yanks open the door into the house, quickly checks the hallway ahead of him, then lets the door shut behind him.

Don Williams shakes his head, and pulse racing, pulls the Rover to the side of the driveway, then runs back for the SUV. As he passes John's Harley, he thinks, "Later for you, if there's time."

He looks toward the door into the house. Enders has already disappeared through it in search of the manor's occupants. He guns the SUV into reverse and pulls it several yards beyond the Rover. Then runs back for the third vehicle. That will leave Mrs. Holmes' private car. And any containers of petrol that might be stored in the garage. As he runs, all Don thinks is, "Shite….shite…shite!"

OooOooO

Lori Hansen straightens, then swipes her hands along her scrubs. She enters the kitchen through the garden door, intent on finding a box in the garage area or failing that, in Sherlock's lab, if he'll let her.

The explosion rocks the walls around her and she grabs at the kitchen counter, suddenly dizzy. Her eyes widen. She can hear the glassware and tableware rock in the cabinets to her side. The long counter shudders once and she watches as the crystal salt and pepper shakers dance slightly, then become still.

"That was a mother fucking bomb!" the tiny nurse shouts. She looks back at the garden door, an obvious way out of the house. Then shakes her head. She cannot just leave without finding out if anyone is injured and needs medical help.

" _Dr. Dennison! He was going to meet John in the library._ _Maggie will probably be with him."_

Grimly, Lori gathers her courage, then rushes toward the double doors and charges through them, intent on finding Dennison and Oakton. And Doctor Watson.

OooOooO

As John hurries Maggie and Galen toward the front entryway, Agent Enders runs up to them from the side hallway.

"Captain Watson!"

John shouts at him. "Here. Get them both out and away from the house. Up on the lawn, toward the first large tree. We'll use that as a rendezvous point. I'm going back for Hansen, then Sherlock!"

Enders' eyes widen. "I should be the one to —"

"No time to argue, Rob. I know where the two of them are. Just get these two out. Stat!"

"Yes Sir!" Rob Enders grabs Maggie by her hand and says, "Doctors Oakton, Dennison, this way and hurry the fuck up!"

John turns and rushes back toward the kitchen area, intent on finding Lori Hansen.

They go two yards and then Maggie slows their pace and tugs furiously on Agent Roaman's hand.

"Will everyone just stop yanking me around? I'm perfectly capable of running by myself."

Enders stops long enough to release her wrist. "All right, but move it!" He turns toward Galen Dennison to hurry him along, but sees the doctor's eyes widen. Enders twists back around to see what has startled Dennison, just as Maggie Oakton veers off and rushes toward the formal dining room.

"Maggie!" Galen hollers after her.

"What the bloody fuck!" Enders looks at Galen, then points down the long hall toward the front of the manor. "Get the hell out of here, now. I'll go after her and bring her out, if I have to sling her over my shoulder. Just move!"

He turns and runs after Maggie Oakton.

"Over my dead body," Galen says and he follows both of them at a determined run.

At the door of the dining room, Maggie glances around quickly, then hurries to the other side of the impossibly long table where the medical supplies are stacked, next to Galen's large case. The black case that holds John's injections lies next to it. She ignores the bed where Jake Lynn lay bleeding to death, the chair, still in the middle of the room, where Lori cut John's hair and the far end of the table where the men sat cleaning the weapons. And where their cleaning rags still lie in a pile that smells like gun oil. It seems like an age ago.

" _Can it be – how can it be less than one day?"_ she thinks.

She shakes her head and grabs up one of the blankets from Lori's carefully folded stack, half opens it and begins to sweep medical supplies off the end of the table into the makeshift carrier.

Enders runs in, comes to a dead stop, then hurries to her side, prepared to grab her, by force if necessary. He is followed immediately by Galen.

Maggie waves a hand at Galen's medical case, just as he, too, runs into the dining area.

"John's injections. We can't just leave them," she pants. She stares down Enders.

The agent nods grimly. "All right. But let's get them and get the hell out of here."

"Maggie, we can get—"

"No, Galen, that's just it. We can't. There aren't any more made up. We don't have time to argue about this. And we're going to need medical supplies."

There are times to argue with the woman you love and Galen Dennison immediately recognises that this is not one of those times.

"All right, but hurry, Mags!" Under Enders' gaze, Galen opens his medical case, then scoops up the black case that holds John's hypos. He slips the smaller one into the larger, flips the small latch and hands it off to Roaman, who takes it and nods.

Galen turns to Maggie, who finishes scooping medical supplies off the buffet onto the blanket. She begins to twist the ends together. "Okay. That's enough. We've got the injections. Now let's get –"

The three of them turn together toward the open door - and the second explosion goes off – a dozen feet away from them.

Galen, who is on the far right, both hears and then sees the mattress explode. One second the bed is there on the floor in the far corner and then he watches out of his peripheral vision as it erupts outward in one bulging, ungodly roar that seems to leach all the oxygen out of the room. The tsunami of expanding air molecules fills his lungs and mouth and ears and eyes with sound and wind and miniscule bits of cotton and fluff and something that tastes truly dreadful. The resulting shock wave slams into the side of his skull and he falls into a silence where he hears only the muted sounds of his beating heart – and Maggie Oakton's screams.

OooOooO

John fumbles for his phone as he runs, and manages to extricate it from his jeans just as he hears the second explosion, seemingly at the same time he feels the vibration under his feet. He is halfway to the kitchen and realizes instantly that the sound comes from behind him, from the formal dining room. And instantly, he knows – he _knows_ – it's an IED and that it was planted under or in the mattress left on the floor, the mattress covered in Jake Lynn's blood. But there's no time to go back as he's now at the double doors that lead into the kitchen. He shoves his mobile back into his pocket, then puts out a hand to steady himself against the door edge. The door suddenly slams outward, nearly knocking him off his feet, as Lori Hansen barrels through it and straight into his arms.

OooOooO

Agent Terry Roaman looks at the screen of his mobile in disbelief. He has received two phone calls and one text all in the space of a minute it seems. He stops his regular walking patrol of the outlying areas, which includes the stables, punches the button and holds the phone up to his ear. At the same time, some instinct goads him into rushing toward the mansion instead of finishing his designated path.

Someone is screaming in his ear as he runs. "Terry, it's Rob. Get the fuck up here now. The whole goddamn place is going up. Multiple explosions, fucking bombs. Call Holmes!"

Roaman thumbs the buttons on his phone, even as he takes off for the mansion at a dead run.

OooOooO

"Doctor Watson! What the hell!"

"Bombs. Hold still!" John grabs Lori and then holds her to one side as he edges toward one of the kitchen doors, then pushes it open. It swings easily inward. Across the gleaming length of the kitchen, he can see the back door that leads into the kitchen garden.

He turns her in his arms and looks down into her brown eyes, wide now with terror.

"Is the garden path clear?"

She stares back at him, then opens her mouth but no sound comes out. She gasps once, coughs. Then nods. "Captain – John, I think so. I didn't see any – Yes. The gate was open. The path looked clear."

He nods. "Good girl. Lori, listen to me? I want you to go back through the kitchen and out that door. Get round to the front of the house but stay as far away from it as you can. The middle of the lawn should suffice. Get to the first of the large trees and wait for us there."

He glances at her and watches as her pupils react. She takes a slow deep breath to steady herself, then shakes her head at him.

"No! I'm not running away when there might be wounded who need me."

John gives her thin shoulders a determined shake. "Damn it, Hansen. Now is not the time! You will do as I fucking tell you to. Get the hell out of here, now, and wait by that tree! By now, Enders should have Oakton and Dennison out there. Wait there for us. Are we clear?"

Lori looks at him, tears in her eyes.

He shouts at her to goad her into action. "I said, are we clear!"

Lori slowly nods. "Yes. We're clear."

"Good. Now go." He turns her around and propels her through the kitchen door and toward the far exit.

Lori takes one step, two, then turns back to him. "John – please –"

"I said fucking move, Hansen! That's an order," he shouts. Tears fill her brown eyes and she nods. She turns to hurry toward the back door.

The third explosion, from ahead and beyond them, and directly outside the house, somewhere in the walled garden, rocks the very walls of the kitchen, blasts the far door off its hinges and leaves it hanging at a crazy angle - and glassware snaps – bowl from stem - where it is ranked behind the ornamental glass cabinet doors. The glass doors explode outward at the same time the tall kitchen windows shatter inward – and downward. Every wine glass, every drink glass, every glass and porcelain and ceramic item in the kitchen cabinets shatters and snaps and explodes. The entire wall of sharp-edged particles, including the glass shards of the tall windows, streams outward into the room to cascade down in two impossibly choreographed deadly arcs.

Lori screams once, then falls to the tiled floor, bent over, her hands over her head to protect her from the twin curtains of shattered glass.

"Fuck!" John rushes forward, dodging what appears to be the huge stainless steel coffee pot as it is propelled outward from its customary station on the counter. The glass and steel appliance sails past his head, just missing him, and shatters against the far wall, its cord trailing along in one long deadly whiplash of wire and melted casing.

He reaches Hansen as the floor rocks under them both and crouches down, covering her body with his as glass continues to rain down around them.

OooOooO

"Sir! Sir! The mansion is exploding. Multiple IED's. We need—" Roaman's plea is cut off and the line goes dead in Mycroft's hands. He stares at his mobile. Then he tosses the thing onto his desk top and buzzes for Deborah.

She rushes in. This is the first time he has ever used the thing and Anthea has warned her that -

His face is a deep red and he literally screams at her. "Get the fucking Met on the line, now! Get every damn patrol car available out to the mansion. The damn thing is exploding. Call the fire department for that county and get emergency services personnel out there. And an ambulance! Two ambulances! And I want my car ready for me in one minute. Move it!"

Her face drains of all color and her eyes widen. But she rushes to her desk and grabs the landline.

Mycroft glances at the folder in front of him labeled TBrown. He snatches it up, along with the memory stick that lies on his desk and his mobile and follows her out of his office to help her make some of those calls.

OooOooO

Galen Dennison becomes aware that someone is shaking the liver and lights out of him. He tries to open his eyes. His lips feel puffy and his face is hot. What the hell happened?

"Dennison! Doctor Dennison! Wake up, Sir! I need you now. Dennison!"

Enders shakes Galen again, then hauls off and slaps the psychiatrist across the face.

Galen's eyes snap open and he moves to grab Enders hand, before he can land another slap.

"Maggie," he croaks. "Maggie."

Enders nods. "She's trapped, Dennison. I need your help. Now wake up and haul your arse over here."

He turns from Galen, who seems to be on his hands and knees on the carpet, and moves out of Galen's sight. Galen looks around groggily, takes a deep breath. "Maggie?"

"Over here, Dennison. Move it! She's trapped!"

Galen struggles to his feet and puts out a hand to steady himself on a wooden surface next to him. His eyes widen as he realizes that his fingers grip the edge of one large chunk of dark wood, part of the massive dining table, which has splintered into three huge pieces, more or less solid slabs, lying at angles to each other where the formal dining table used to stand. Or nearly so. The entire mass of wood has inexplicably shifted several feet toward the far wall.

He manages to stand upright, then looks to his left where Agent Enders is crouched down on the carpet, looking up under the farthest slab of wood. Galen's ears ring and he tries to clear his head, then realises that shaking it is not advisable at this time.

Galen watches as Enders drops to his full length along the carpet and attempts to reach up under the huge chunk of wood.

"Doctor Oakton! Oakton! Maggie? Do you hear me? Oakton!"

Enders lifts his head to find Galen's wide eyes. "Get the fuck over here and talk to her. She's out cold. I need you to get her to wake up, Sir! We have to move this bloody huge table off her, now!"

"Maggie!" Galen stumbles, then straightens himself and steps around pieces of debris, bits of wood and plaster, pieces of marbled glass that he assumes was once the mirrored backdrop to the carved buffet, which seems to have disappeared into a pile of splintered wood and tumbled debris.

"Mags!" Galen makes his shaky way to Enders, stepping over more debris, mainly wood and glass and cloth and bits of Oriental carpeting, then steadies himself and lowers his body down to the ruined carpet. His head spins and he feels as if he's going to vomit on the floor any minute. He shuts his eyes momentarily, takes a breath, then opens his eyes to look straight into the dark gaze of Agent Enders.

"All right now? I need you to talk to her, Doctor. See if you can get her to wake up. We need her help to get her out of here. "

Enders maneuvers his body to the side so Galen can stretch out along his full length. He tilts his head so he can look under the slab and see what Enders sees. And gasps.

Maggie lies huddled under the closest slab of wood. It has fallen at a right angle to the other slab, the one Galen had his hand on. Together the two chunks of table form a tiny recess. It is this that has saved her life. Maggie's body lies curled up in the triangle formed by the two huge slabs. He can see her chest rise and fall. But her head is turned away from him and he cannot see her face. She appears to be unconscious.

" _She's alive, Dennison. Focus on that,"_ he tells himself grimly. He shakes his head slightly, then tilts it to look at Rob Enders, where he lays next to Galen along the ruined carpet. "We need to get this off her so we can pull her out."

Enders nods. "And how do you propose we do that, Doctor?"

Galen thinks, then opens his mouth to speak.

The third blast goes off across and down the hall from them. This one sounds as if its far away, possibly outside the mansion. But both men cover their heads with their hands and shut their eyes.

Galen shouts, "Maggie!"

Beside him, he feels the wood slab begin to shift.

OooOooO

Sherlock is on his knees in the lab, his buzzing mobile in his hand. Before he can answer the phone, the second explosion, far away and over his head, barely rocks the walls, but it's enough movement that it contributes to his vertigo – and he nearly falls over. He splays one long-fingered hand against the floor tiles and grimly holds his phone up to his eyes with his other hand. His head wound must have reopened because blood begins to drip down the side of his face. The crimson drops splash onto the phone's small screen. He scrubs it impatiently against his trousers, then tries to read the screen again.

The laboratory ceiling and countertops continue to vibrate, but at a gentler rate than before. The floor seems more or less steady but he is in no condition to stand.

He thumbs the button to answer and tries to hold the phone to his ear. The dreadful ringing in his head worsens and he nearly groans aloud.

"Mr. Holmes! This is Agent Williams. Where are you, Sir?"

"Lab … I'm in the lab," Sherlock mutters. He winces again at the bright pain in his head and keeps his eyes shut as he tries to answer the agent's questions.

"Can you get out, Mr. Holmes? Sherlock? Can you hear me? I need to know if you can get out of the - "

"Yes. Of course. I'm just - dazed."

Sherlock cautiously opens his eyes, and takes a hesitant look around. He hears a slight sound and glances upward and his clear eyes widen as three, four, make that five glass vials and tubes of various chemicals, reagents and reactants topple, then roll to the edge of the long counter top – and cascade off onto the tile floor, immediately followed by the quick, bright sound of shattering glass.

"No!" Sherlock struggles to scoot backward, away from the broken glass receptacles, as a small noxious cloud forms over the multi-colored liquids now splashed on the floor nearly at his feet.

"Mr. Holmes? Sherlock? Please answer me, Sir!"

Coughing violently, Sherlock drops his phone, and brings his sleeved arm up and over his nose and mouth. He scrambles backward and manages to put a few more feet between himself and the chemical spill. Finally, his back is to the corner of the room and he is more or less wedged between the far wall and the end of the counter which holds the sink. He bends double and attempts to catch his breath but the noxious fumes fill his nose, sinus cavities and mouth.

Sherlock coughs desperately, then fumbles for purchase and tries to pull himself upright. If he can get to the water – hell, he just needs to get out of the damn lab.

In front of him, where it lies on the floor, his mobile screams at him. "Mr. Holmes! Sherlock!"

He ignores it and finally manages to get to his feet. He reaches for the taps.

Somewhere a long way off, above and beyond the laboratory, the third explosion goes off.

It barely rocks the room and does no further damage. But his mind registers the sound as he moves to turn on the water. Behind him, the small case which holds the remaining samples of Marcus Franks' drug rocks slightly on the edge of the counter.

Sherlock coughs again and reaches upward for a glass to hold water. Behind him, the noxious fumes, the small cloud of vitriolic chemicals builds, morphs and grows. He doubles up, coughing violently. His heart labors.

The fourth explosion rocks the very ceiling over his head, causes shockwaves to ripple the wall of the lab and he can hear the sound of chunks of wall, of plaster and mortar and bits of the mansion itself as they rip and tear away from the walls and fall on the floor, both on the inside of the lab and on the outside in the hallway. It must be loud, as he can clearly hear it through the steel laboratory door. The largest of the cabinets topples over, as if in slow motion, directly in front of the laboratory door. It is joined a moment later by the next cabinet over, as it, too, shakes and then tumbles, spilling its contents in a jumbled heap on the tiles.

Behind him, his last remaining samples of Frank's drug shake in their case, still perched on the edge of the counter, then tilt slowly off the edge and onto the hard floor below. As they fall, they slip from the confines of the small case and tumble, end over end, to land in a broken heap on the hard tiles, more or less on top of the multiple-colored chemical spill that already lies pooled there.

"Shite."

He runs a glass of water and drinks quickly, more to soothe his burning throat than for thirst, then grabs a handful of cotton rags to cover his nose and mouth. Sherlock fumbles in his pocket for the key to the door. Then realises he must be delirious. He doesn't need the bloody key to unlock the bloody door. It locks from the inside. All he has to do is walk over there and turn the lock. Only now the door appears to be blocked.

Sherlock frowns at the cabinets that have fallen in front of the door, then mentally shrugs. It shouldn't take him more than a minute or two to move the stupid things.

Behind him the small cloud grows and spreads. The a/c picks up the fumes and wafts them through the air.

The pain in Sherlock's skull becomes agonizing and he groans with it.

_All he has to do is walk over there, move the cabinets and turn the stupid — John!_

Sherlock's eyes roll up in his head and he falls to the floor, unconscious. The rags drop from his hands and he lies on the cold tile of his laboratory, his dark curls damp with sweat and now with the drops of blood that begin to drip from the open scalp wound.

"Sherlock! Mr. Holmes, please answer me!"

**OooOooO**

John raises his head cautiously and looks toward the far door. The door itself hangs at an impossible angle. But he can clearly see outward into the garden, where an impossible pile of brick and mortar now - nearly - blocks the way out of the kitchen. The blast has apparently taken out the garden wall and the resultant pile of debris appears to block their only egress.

Under him, Lori Hansen begins to stir. He gingerly moves off of her, then bends double, rests his palms on his thighs and takes a few deep breaths. He thinks about checking the tiny nurse for wounds.

John's head and ears ring with the concussive effects of the last blast. He shakes his head to clear it, then groans slightly and lifts a bloodied hand to the side of his face. There's a buzzing sound in his head and he recognises it instantly. He groans.

" _No. NO! Fuck this…not now! Shite ... Not now! Sherlock!"_

The buzzing increases in intensity and somewhere in the back of John's mind, he can clearly hear people screaming, women and children. They seem to be screaming in Dari.

And in his mind's eye, he can see them, aged women, most of them bent over, trying to hurry; middle-aged women with their arms full of what household goods they managed to rescue; young women, no more than girls really, with nursing infants held in their arms, and tiny children, impossibly skinny, their limbs little more than brown sticks in brightly-colored rags, as they run toward the fields and away from the multiple blasts.

John lifts his head, opens his dark eyes – and stares. Over the ruination of the kitchen, superimposed against the bright day, he sees another picture, and he winces at the building once used as a school, nearly torn to bits now.

He hears the Major scream at him. His eyes narrow. He listens for his commands, his orders.

"Concussive blast. It's a fucking 'clearing house.' IED's planted all over the goddamned place. Get everyone the fuck away from it now, Captain. The walls are going to collapse at any minute!"

"Yes sir," John mumbles. _He glances around and his eyes widen_. _Where are his men? His doctors? Where are his weapons, for fuck's sake?_ He looks down _…where is his medical pack? Hell, where are his fucking supplies!_

Lori moans slightly. Her voice is slight in the shattered silence in the ruined kitchen. "Doctor – Watson?"

Time rushes forward. Events coalesce in one aching blast of thought. John Watson gasps – and the mental pictures begin to fade. He can now see them as through a fog, hazy, unclear.

His breath comes in a sharp gasp and he lifts one shaking hand, bloodied from myriad glass cuts, to his eyes. He pinches his nose between thumb and forefinger. Shuts his eyes. And takes a deep breath. He deliberately keeps his eyes closed.

" _Fuck this shit. I thought I was over this shit. Sherlock!"_

John breathes like she told him. In through his nose. Hold it. Count of five. Out through his mouth. Again.

"John?"

Lori lifts her dark head and lowers her hands to the floor. She sighs and then attempts to rise. She brushes up against John Watson's quiet form.

Lori glances sideways and up at John's face. His eyes are shut. His hands are bleeding from multiple cuts and he's shaking slightly.

" _Once more, Watson. Get rid of this shit. These people need you."_

Slowly, the frantic voices of women and children and old people screaming, begging for help, for food, for medical aid, for water, leaves him. The sounds fade. One breath, another. And then they're gone. Shoved back into his personal hell, the hell he keeps in a box, nailed shut and locked with dead bolts - and shoved to the farthest reaches of his mind. A box _she_ helped him build through long therapy sessions, sessions that left him with more questions than answers, sessions that left him cold and shaking inside, from those days, not that long past, when he thought he would never truly be whole again.

One last deep breath _. Sherlock!_

And then Captain John Watson opens his navy blue eyes, looks into Lori Hansen's brown gaze and smiles grimly.

"Let's get the fuck out of here, Lori, okay?"

She nods. They help each other to their feet.

The fourth explosion rocks the very center of the mansion and they stumble as they make their way out the double doors and into the outer hallway.

**OooOooO**

Agent Don Williams finishes with the vehicles and double checks to make certain he has left the keys to each one in their ignition. He rushes back toward the garage, as Terry Roaman runs toward him from the direction of the stables.

"What the fuck happened?" Roaman demands. Don just shakes his head grimly as they both head into the garage.

"Not sure. But the fucking things are on a timer, that's for sure. I've counted three of the bloody things so far. Got to be on a timer somewhere in the house. We're to check the outside front of the house to see if any of the civilians have gotten out yet."

The two men hesitate and glance around the garage. "See any more petrol containers, anything flammable?" Don Williams asks.

Terry Roaman looks around. Then shakes his head. "I think you've got it all. Well," he looks over at the Harley. "Bound to be petrol in its tank. Not much, but it could still cause a fire. It should be moved away. Where's Rob?"

"In the house," Don says grimly. "He ran in a few moments ago." He sweeps his hand at the door into the mansion. Roaman nods. He looks at Don Williams.

"You go check the front of the house, Don. I'll move this bloody thing out and then go in after Enders and whoever's still left in there."

Williams nods. "Hurry it up."

Don Williams runs to the corner of the house and around to the front entry way. As he runs, he tugs his mobile out and begins to call the two relief agents, Phillips and Carey. Phillips answers his phone first and Don begins to shout instructions at him.

Don Williams hangs up and then glances at his watch and raises one eyebrow. Less than ten minutes has elapsed since the first explosion.

"Holy fuck!" he says. He runs to the entry way. Somewhere off to his right, he thinks he hears another blast.

OooOooO

Galen Dennison and Rob Enders lift their heads and look at each other. Some small urging, a feeling born of sudden urgency, forces both men to glance back under the slab of wood. The slabs still lie at right angles but one of them wobbles slightly, the one that creates the small space that now holds Maggie Oakton's body.

"Talk to her, Doctor. Let me have a look around."

Enders gets to his feet and glances around the room. His eyes widen and he hurries forward.

Galen stretches out his full length again and reaches up under the slab. He doesn't dare touch it for fear of toppling it over onto Maggie.

"Maggie, wake up. Maggie! Mags! Please wake up, sweetheart."

Maggie Oakton groans and tries to turn her head. What the hell is the matter with her? This is the second time in – well – she can't remember. But she does remember being on the floor and having the breath knocked out of her. Again. She sighs and coughs, then realises she lies on carpeting and bits of dust and fluff are trying to make their way up her nose and into her open mouth.

Maggie sneezes.

"Mags? Holy hell, you're awake!"

"Galen," she mutters. Can't be, though. Galen never curses. Never. She tries to turn her head and winces. She appears to be in some sort of dark tunnel or –

"Maggie, listen to me. Don't move. Lie still. You're in the dining room. The bloody thing exploded. You're all right. We're going to get you out from under that thing. Just hold on."

Galen's' quiet assurances make her green eyes widen and she tries again to turn her head. Finally, she succeeds and frowns as she realises she is looking ahead into Galen Dennison's dark brown eyes – and both of them appear to be lying on the floor.

She aches all over. And she wants to move, to shift her position. But she knows that under no circumstances should she move. Something is wrong, very, very wrong. She's not certain what, just that she should not move.

"Galen?" Maggie whispers. She coughs again and manages to spit out a tiny bit of carpet fluff that was lodged in her esophagus. She wants to laugh. She really does. But this does not appear to be the time for it.

"Got it!" Over to his left, Galen hears Rob Enders as he rushes back toward them.

Enders looks down at Galen. "Is she awake?"

"Yes, she just opened her eyes. I'm looking at her."

At Galen's quiet voice, Maggie's eyes widen more. "Galen? What the hell – where are we? Who are you talking to?"

"Hush, Mags. I'm talking to Agent Enders. You're underneath what's left of the large dining table. Remember? You need to lie still while we get you out."

"I'm – under the dining table. The large one."

"Yes, Maggie, now hush a moment. And for god's sakes, don't move!"

"All right, Galen," she says quietly. She is suddenly achingly tired. Maggie sighs and turns her head to rest her cheek on the carpet.

Galen rises to his knees slowly, careful not to put his hand against the slab of wood over Maggie's head. Then he sees what Rob Enders holds in his hand.

"We need to get behind her. I can balance the slab with this, and you can crawl in there and pull her out."

Galen looks at the long heavy table leg that Enders holds in his hands. One end of it still has the ornamental foot that helped hold the immense weight of the teak table.

Galen looks at Enders, then looks at the table leg. "We need to use two of those," he says quietly. "You can't possibly hold off the entire slab with just the one. It'll topple on her, one way or the other."

Enders considers this, then nods. "You're right." He looks at Galen Dennison, then purses his lips.

"We need help, and now." He begins to fish his mobile out of his pocket.

The fourth bomb goes off somewhere deep in the mansion and the floor barely rocks under their feet.

Both men hold their breath. Then look at each other. From under the slab of wood, Maggie's quiet voice says, "What the fucking hell was that?"

Galen's eyes widen. He feels nauseated, slightly sick from the dizziness brought on by the explosions. He's suddenly aware that his heart pounds in his chest. His forehead feels damp and his hands are sweaty.

" _Now is not the time to go yellow on everyone, Dennison,"_ he tells himself grimly.

He nods at Enders. "Call someone. We need to use two of those to hold the slab off her, then pull her out. There is no way she can crawl forward on her own without help."

Enders nods. His hands shake slightly as he carefully balances the table leg against what's left of the carved buffet behind him. Then he thumbs his mobile.

"Doctor Dennison?" The voice is small, hesitant.

"What in fucking hell is going on in here? Rob! I told you to get them out!" And this voice is anything but small.

Rob Enders turns around. Lori Hansen and John Watson stand in the doorway. Hansen's eyes are huge in her face and she has small streaks of blood on her hands and cheeks.

Captain Watson looks – well, from the thunderous look on John Watson's face, if Rob Enders actually reported to Watson and not to Mycroft Holmes, he would be looking for a new job right about now.

OooOooO

"Mummy?"

"Son." She stops speaking, can tell from the tone of his voice that something has happened.

"Mummy – where are you right now?"

"In hospital with Jenkins. I'm checking him out. Mycroft – what's happened?"

"Hurry please," he tells his driver. The agent up front nods. "Yes, Sir."

He holds the Blackberry in his hand up to his ears. And takes a deep breath.

OooOooO

Sherlock is dreaming.

He stands under the white arch in the formal garden. The gardens are brilliant, utterly alive with color. He's never seen so many shades and variations of flowers. But then, he's never really paid that much attention to them. The butterflies that dance around the blooms, on the other hand ...

He can smell their perfume, although something seems – off – about the scent. Are flowers supposed to smell like this? Burning? Acrid? The morning sun is utterly brilliant and everything stands out in sharp relief. Everything and everyone seems to have a halo, a nimbus of bright light that surrounds their forms. He winces at the brilliance. Bright. Too bright.

Someone - his brother? - stands next to him. Sherlock tries to adjust his starched shirt. He's usually entirely at home with formal clothing, but this blasted collar itches. And hell, whatever they put on his curls to try to tame them itches as well. Itches madly.

He glances downward and sighs. Mummy insisted they go with the morning coats in dove grey.

He would have preferred the dark blue. But apparently very little about this ceremony has to do with him and John and most of it to do with his mother's determined interference.

" _Well meaning, I am certain,"_ he thinks. " _But bloody hell, the collar itches_. _And what demon invented bow ties? Or any ties, for that matter. Brilliant. You get up in the morning, begin to plan your day and the first thing you do is tie a ruddy noose around your ruddy neck."_ It's the main reason he's never worn ties. Until now.

He glances over as John strides determinedly out of the side of the house, accompanied by his sister Harry, and begins to walk down the garden path. Someone has strewn the path with rose petals.

" _Utte_ r _rot_ ," thinks Sherlock. But he promised not to make a scene, so he lets it go.

" _Well, as John's Best Man, I guess Harriet Watson does in a pinch."_ But he would have preferred Lestrade. And who decided on Bach? He would have chosen– And then he gets his first good look at John Watson. Sherlock's eyes widen.

"My God," he breathes.

"Stop fidgeting," Mycroft's voice is a whisper in his ear.

"I'm not fidgeting. And shut up, Mycroft."

"Wonderful," his brother sighs. "I can see how this is going to go right now."

He doesn't answer. He cannot.

Instead of the baggy jumpers, the casual jeans or corduroy trousers and button-downs or even the white Doctor's coat, the love of his life wears a perfectly tailored suit, the same as his, but the morning coat in dove grey has obviously been made for John Watson and for him alone. It fits him like a glove and sets off the starched white of his shirt. The sun glances off the gold cufflinks at John's wrists. The ones Sherlock gave him. The ones with both their initials on them, woven together in Gaelic script.

The morning sun glances off the flowers, his mother's dark hair, tipped with white, the hats of the women present who suddenly stand at their seats – and then the sunlight finds the bright head of John Watson.

As John walks toward him, Sherlock's breath catches. John's hair is a brilliant heartbreaking white-gold.

John looks at him – his eyes widen at his first sight of Sherlock - and suddenly John flashes him that quick grin.

Sherlock groans _. John_ ….

Sherlock grins back. " _There might be something to this sentimental nonsense, after all,"_ he thinks. If for no other reason, at least he gets to see his love formally attired – and dressed to kill. " _Mental note: have morning suit cleaned, pressed and carefully placed in storage. Once a month, he will insist that John take it out and – perhaps once weekly?"_

John comes up to him and stops facing Sherlock, just a few feet away.

He continues to grin at Sherlock. Sherlock gets momentarily lost in the deep ocean of John Watson's eyes. Then he glances down at John's wrists to get another look at the gold cufflinks.

Fleur de lis.

John has tiny carvings of fleur de lis on his cufflinks. Sherlock frowns. He never ordered that design. John's cufflinks should not have – then he looks up. And watches in horror as the dark blue of his intended's eyes deepen into a shining black.

"You," he croaks. "You. But - you're dead.  Finished."

The cruel lips curve upward. "Are you so certain? 100 percent? Ever see my body?"

Sherlock takes a step back, and encounters his brother's sturdy form. "No. NO! I – wait," he puts a shaking hand to his head and grimaces. The morning sun hurts his head. His head begins to pound.

He looks back up.

John's dark blue eyes look placidly back at him, filled with joy. Sherlock's heart rate settles down. Sherlock looks into the familiar face, notes the new frown lines, the slight tan, the slightly longer spikes of the white-gold hair. He leans toward John.

John smiles at him – and speaks.

"Sherlock!"

"Yes, John?"

"You need to wake up now. Sherlock?"'

Sherlock frowns. These aren't the words they rehearsed. He is to say his and then John is to—

"John?'

"Sherlock! Mr. Holmes, it's Agent Williams. I need you to focus and pick up the phone. Sherlock! Pick up the ruddy phone and talk to me, please!"

"John – where's John?" He groans and tries to roll to one side to pick up the phone, but he's not certain where it is. The voice sounds small, tiny. But he can clearly hear -

"He's not here right now. But we're going to put him on in a few. Now concentrate, man! Sherlock! For fucks' sake, wake up and speak to me! If you can hear me, then your phone is close at hand. Pick the damn thing up, man, so I can stop shouting! What's happening down there? Sherlock!"

Sherlock groans and opens his eyes. The lights are blinding in their intensity and he immediately shuts them again, tightly. Something burns his throat and sinuses. His head spins and he lifts one shaking hand to brush over his face. Liquid, warm and wet, soaks the side of his face. He can feel it where it's dripped into his hair. He runs a hand through his curls, then gasps as they encounter the stitches, some of them come loose now. His hand comes away sticky.

He opens his eyes, tentatively this time, just squinting at first, and looks at his palm. It's covered with blood. He rubs his palm absently along his trousers, then reaches out with the same hand, and finds his phone lying next to his side. He grabs it in a palm still slippery with blood and manages to bring it up and hold it next to his ear.

"Yes. Yes – I'm here. I - can hear you."

"Good. That's good! Okay, now I need to know your condition? The stairwell is blocked. Temporarily. But we're going to get it cleared. We're going to get to you. Sherlock? Mr. Holmes, move your bloody arse and answer me—"

Sherlock clears his throat and it sends waves of burning pain through his mouth and esophagus. Christ, what happened? Chemicals?

He groans and rolls over to his side. He has to get out of this place. Now. He manages to get to his knees. His fingers still grasp the mobile. Slowly, slowly, he reaches out with his other hand. His fingers encounter the cabinet door, then the knob. And he uses it to pull himself upward. Finally, he's on his feet, more or less.

Sherlock leans against the counter and looks down into the stainless sink. The water still drips slightly. He left the tap open. He sticks one hand under the steady drip and sighs at the coolness. He sets the phone down on the counter and holds his other hand, also, under the cold water. It feels wonderful. He hears someone shouting at him. He rubs his wet palms up and down his trousers, then picks up the phone again.

It hurts to talk. Bloody hell, it hurts to breathe but talking is most definitely to be avoided, if at all possible, right now.

"Put John on," he croaks with a voice gone rusty _. Christ, that hurts_!

"Hold on, Mr. Holmes. Don't hang up the phone."

Sherlock continues to look at the small stream of water as it dribbles downward into the sink.

Hold on? Why would he hang up?

"John," he whispers.

The next explosion is smaller, but close at hand. The walls rattle and he hears objects, vials and cylinders, shake behind the doors of the cabinets that remain standing. The floor doesn't shake, however, and he is able to retain his footing. He frowns. That sounded – yes, it sounded as if it was directly outside the laboratory door. The lights over his head begin to flicker.

Sherlock hears the snap and crackle of uncovered electrical wires, smells the whiff of ozone, of electricity suddenly released. He turns slowly, mobile in hand, and looks down the length of his lab. The lights continue to flicker. He watches, open-eyed, as first one piece of lab equipment, then another snaps and pops, most of the small sounds occur where cords are plugged into the wall. He sees small bright flashes of light.

As he looks, there is a bright flare – and a small flame, brilliant blue in ins intensity, pops up out of nowhere. He looks from the quietly flaming cord to the small pool of chemicals, to the other chemicals he has stacked neatly along the counter top, each one labeled. Each one sparkling in its individual glass container.

His eyes widen. The pain in his head blacks out his vision, temporarily, and he sags backward against the sink. He grips the mobile until his knuckles turn white.

_John … John … John …_

**OooOooO**

John Watson rushes into the room, then stops as he realizes there must be a reason that Dennison is lying on the ground and Rob Enders stands there looking back at him.

Enders speaks first. "It's Oakton. She's trapped."

John walks up to them, glances into Enders' eyes, then quietly drops to his knees. He bends his head and then stretches out along the carpet, his side brushes up against Galen Dennison's trousers. John stares into Maggie Oakton's brilliant green eyes. And grimaces.

"Okay, Maggie, hang on. We're going to get you out of there." John glances to each side of Maggie and mentally accesses the situation. Only a few inches of space on each side of her. Not much room to maneuver. He nods once.

"Right." John comes to his knees, then to his feet in one fluid movement. He glances at Rob Enders and then at the table leg. "We're going to need another one of those," he says determinedly.

"Yes, Sir." Enders hands the first length of wood to John, who takes it, and moves around him to rummage through the utter devastation that was once the formal dining area.

Lori Hansen comes to stand a little behind both men. She looks down at Galen Dennison, who lies stretched out on the floor, and is apparently speaking to Doctor Oakton, who must be trapped under the remains of the huge table. Her eyes fill. Maggie!

Galen ignores everyone but Maggie, who remains a few maddening inches out of his reach.

"Maggie? Look at me. We're going to get you out. Just – breathe. Just hang on, okay, sweetheart?

Maggie Oakton grimaces. Her legs are beginning to hurt her. She does not stop to realize that this is a very good sign. Her back also aches. Another good sign. But she does not realize any of this.

She just knows she hurts. She's trapped in a very small, dark space. And bombs are exploding around her.

Could this day get any better?

As if to illustrate the point, another explosion happens far away from them. This one doesn't even rock the room. It's more a sound than anything else. But she hears it. And her eyes widen.

"Bloody hell, get me out of here, Galen," she breathes.

"Working on it, Luv," Galen Dennison says.

She turns her head to more fully look into his brown eyes. And tries to smile.

Rob Enders rushes back. He has another table leg in his hands. John nods. Then he frowns and looks down at Galen.

"Doctor Dennison? Are you going to be able to get in there and pull her out?"

Galen tilts his head to look up at John. And he frowns, too. He turns his head back to consider the small space that Maggie is curled up in, then he shakes his head. "Not certain," he says worriedly.

"Never mind, Doctor Dennison. I can fit."

And Lori Hansen drops to her knees, then stretches out her full length, which is not saying a great deal, and looks straight into Maggie Oakton's emerald eyes.

Maggie looks from Lori's steady gaze, to Galen's concerned frown. He raises one eyebrow. Then nods.

John looks at both of them, then sighs. He doesn't argue.

"All right, Lori, get into position. Rob and I are going to use these to keep the slab from falling any further."

John moves around to the side, as does Rob Enders. John raises his voice.

"Can you hear me, Maggie? We're not going to try to lift the slab. It might slip and fall on you. We're just going to keep it from falling any further. Doctor Dennison –"he breaks off and looks straight into Lori Hansen's' brown eyes. He grins suddenly.

Lori's heart leaps. _At last!_ _She's going to be allowed to be of service_.

He nods once. He recognises the look on Lori's face – and he's more than familiar with the feeling. He continues. "Make that _Ms. Hansen_ is going to pull you out of there. We'll have you free in a minute, okay Maggie?"

Maggie looks back at Lori. And grins. Or tries to. She hopes her voice carries to John.

"All right, John."

She swivels her head slightly to look at Galen. Lord, but her neck hurts.

John glances over at Enders.

"Okay, Rob, let's do this. Lori, are you ready?"

"Just a second." Lori wiggles forward slightly on her stomach. Her upper torso fits exactly into the small space that surrounds Maggie Oakton.

Maggie groans slightly, as circulation increases in her back and legs.

Galen looks at her. "Maggie? "

Lori shouts, so her voice will carry from under the slab.

"Okay, Captain – okay, John. I'm ready."

Galen moves slightly to the side to give Lori more space to maneuver. He looks from her slight form, then to Maggie's green eyes. He sees how she is wedged in the space. And he frowns.

The small pain in his arm increases but he ignores it. He ignores the nausea, too. And concentrates on Lori's small body as she maneuvers slowly forward.

Lori scoots forward. "Maggie – give me your right hand. Hurry."

Maggie attempts to move her arm where it's been trapped beneath her. She groans as circulation increases and the blood flow sends pins and needles shooting through her muscles.

"Not sure I can move it." She makes the attempt again.

And Galen Dennison begins to swear.

"I swear to God, Margaret Oakton, you are determined to give me a fucking heart attack. Now move your bloody arm and let Lori grab hold of your wrist. That's an order!" he barks.

Maggie's green eyes widen. And she purses her lips at him.

"All right, Galen. But stop shouting at me. Everyone is always shouting at me. Or holding guns to my head."

"I'll shout all I want. And you can knock my lights out once you're out of there. But just – please, Mags, move your arm."

She sighs, rests her cheek against the floor for a second, then tries to lift her head again. Her neck muscles are shaking with the strain. Maggie looks at him and winces. "You know, Galen, I never liked that name. I just thought I should tell you."

"What? 'Mags'? Now is hardly the time, Maggie."

He moves over a few more inches to give Lori better access. Now he cannot clearly see Maggie as Lori's form blocks her out. But he can hear her breathing.

Lori Hansen wiggles forward a few more inches. "I can nearly reach her, John." Both women are now under the slab and John tries not to think of what will happen to the little nurse if the slab should fall.

He nods. "Okay. We're still in position. Go ahead, Lori."

Lori reaches forward. "Doctor Oakton? Please. Just give me your hand."

Maggie sighs. She lifts tortuous neck muscles to look into the tiny nurse's face. And suddenly sees the same determination that helped save John Watson's life in the Wellington Museum. *

"All right," she says. And she manages to maneuver her aching right arm forward and, finally, to extend her hand toward Lori Hansen.

"Got her!" Lori tightens her grasp on Maggie Oakton's wrist and begins to wiggle backwards, careful not to jostle the side of the slab of wood over their heads. Lori grits her teeth, and pulls Maggie forward with all of her strength. Inch by precious inch, the two women begin to move outward, toward the room and Galen.

John and Rob Enders stand, one at each side, and hold the heavy table legs under the broken table, not lifting it, but barely letting the legs touch the under surface. John's face is covered in sweat. He lifts his head to look at Rob. The two men nod at each other. And they keep their hands steady as Lori Hansen continues to maneuver backward, pulling Maggie Oakton right along with her, freeing her from her tight prison.

Just a few more inches and then - Galen reaches out and helps Lori pull Maggie Oakton to safety.

"She's out!" Lori says excitedly. Galen sighs in relief.

Maggie rests her cheek on the carpet to give her tortured neck muscles a break. She shuts her eyes. She can feel her legs and back more and more. She tries moving her leg and thigh muscles. And nods to herself. _Excellent_.

"Are they both clear?" John demands. He stands back to the side and cannot quite see what is happening. He glances at Rob Enders.

Galen nods happily, comes to his knees, then reaches down to help Maggie Oakton sit up.

"They're clear," he says happily.

John and Rob sigh, and gently remove the table legs from under the slab.

As John turns to maneuver around the broken table, Don Williams rushes into the room.

He takes in the scene and then his eyes find John's. He holds up his mobile.

"Captain Watson? I've got Mr. Holmes. He's – not exactly coherent." He breaks off as John rushes around to grab his phone.

Don Williams stares at Maggie Oakton as Lori and Galen struggle to get her to a sitting position, then he looks at Rob Enders.

"Honest to God, Rob, I leave for a few fucking minutes!"

Rob Enders smiles grimly. He looks around at everyone.

"Captain Watson? I recommend we get everyone the hell out of here."

John nods. He holds Don William's mobile but before he speaks, he looks at Don.

"Can we get them out the front entryway?

Don shakes his head. "No sir. It appears to be blocked. At least partially. Best bet is the kitchen door."

John looks at Lori. And frowns. Then he nods.

"All right. Rob, you and Don and everyone who can, bring those table legs and anything we can use to lift bricks out of the way. One of the explosions broke down the garden wall. I think we can get everyone out but you'll have to do some shifting and climbing."

Everyone scrambles to comply.

Rob Enders' mobile goes off. He fishes it out of his pocket. "Phillips" he tells John.

He lifts it to his head. But instead of Agent Phillips' voice, it's Terry Roaman who speaks to him.

"Rob? I'm in the back hallway and bloody hell, the entire damn thing is nearly blocked. Where the fuck is everyone?"

Rob Enders sighs. "We're getting Oakton, Dennison and Hansen out now. We had – a situation. Going out through the kitchen door. Can you get back outside and help reach us from the other side? Captain Watson says it's partially blocked."

"Sure thing. Phillips and Cary are here now, waiting right outside the garage door. I thought it better not to have them come in until we—"

"That's fine. We have to get them out of here now. I'll call you right—"

Roaman shouts. "Wait! Wait! My phone – it stopped. I dropped the ruddy thing. Call me on Phillips' phone. Or Cary's."

Rob sighs. What else? He rubs the bridge of his nose. Then looks around. "All right. We're leaving now. Try to reach us. Doctor Oakton might be injured."

He looks over at Galen Dennison, and frowns. Something is not right with Doctor Dennison, his face appears ashen, grey. He sighs. First things first. The man is still on his feet, so presumably, Watson can look at him later. Or Hansen.

John nods. Then lifts Don Williams' phone to his ear.

"Sherlock?"

No answer.

Somewhere, far away, they hear the sound of sirens.

John looks at Rob Enders, then at Don Williams.

"Get them out. Now!" he barks.

The agents nod. Don Williams grabs both of the table legs and wraps his sturdy hands around the wood. Lori Hansen looks around, and picks up a length of wood. From what, she can't even fathom. It's wood, it's sturdy, and it will work as a lever. And that's all she needs.

She looks at Maggie Oakton, who stands, shakily, but stands nevertheless, and leans on Galen Dennison.

Rob Enders nods. "All right, then. Let's go."

He heads out of the dining room, followed by Lori Hansen. Maggie leans on Galen's arms, tired to the extreme. But her legs work and she starts to walk. Galen holds determinedly on to her waist and refuses to let her go. They head for the kitchen area.

John frowns at the phone in his hand. He lifts his head to look into Don Williams eyes.

"Was he speaking to you, Don?"

Don nods. "Yes, Sir. I asked if he could get out and he initially said 'Yes,' he could. But from that point on, well – "

John nods, a dull roar in his ears. "Have you tried –"

Don shakes his head. "No Sir, I know we have to reach him by the stairwell and that's at least partially -

"Okay, then." He begins to hand Don his phone, then thinks better of it.

Don nods. "You can take it, Sir. We'll use Rob's and –"

The next explosion, a positive cacophony of sound and fury, drowns out their voices.

The mansion rocks under their very feet. All four walls vibrate, and the ceiling overhead rattles. The chandelier sways and one brilliant crystal drop, pear-shaped, tumbles to the carpet, next to John's boots. Both Agent Williams and John lose their footing in the violent shaking. Both of them go down.

And both of them lie, temporarily unmoving, on the ruined carpet of the formal dining room.

Behind them, the two slabs of wood, cantilevered toward each other, fall over with a resounding crash.

OooOooO

A few yards ahead of them, in the outer hallway, Enders grabs at Lori Hansen, as the building shakes and threatens to topple the small nurse off her feet.

"Holy shite!" he shouts.

Galen Dennison puts out his free hand along the wall as both he and Maggie stop. He holds onto Maggie's shaking form. They look at each other as the ground under their feet continues to rock. Their eyes widen.

The roaring sound continues for a full minutes and the mansion continues to rock and sway. There is a horrid sound of falling masonry, of walls detaching and crumbling to the ground.

"Okay, I've had just about enough of this shite!" Rob Enders hollers. He looks down at Lori, who lopoks determinedly up at him. She has small streaks of blood across her forehead and her hair is a rats nest.

She nods. "Damn straight," she says.

Rob smiles. He glances back at Galen and Maggie Oakton. He nods.

"Okay then. We're a few feet away from the kitchen. Let's get the hell out of here, even if we have to climb over bloody Mount Everest to do it!"

They continue on their way, quickly. As they move, Rob tugs his mobile out of his pocket. He attempts to call Don Williams. Presumably, he and John Watson are right behind them.

Williams doesn't answer.

OooOooO

Sherlock sags against the counter top and tries to catch his breath. The small fire seems to be somewhat contained but it can break out, enlarge, at any second. He needs to find something to put it out.

He bends and opens the cabinet under the sink, then comes up with the small fire extinguisher he placed there days ago.

He feels dazed, disoriented. But some small part of his brain tells him this is caused by the chemical spill. He shakily opens a small cabinet to grab another batch of rags to hold over his mouth and nose.

And then he turns to look at the two cabinets that lie in front of the door.

He moves slowly toward the fire and when he's a few feet away, drops the rags from around his mouth and nose so he can get a grip on the plastic loop that he has to pull. The damn thing won't budge.

"Bloody hell!"

Sherlock bends over and picks up one of the rags to wrap around his hand and fingers, and then yanks again on the tiny loop. This time, it comes away.

Nodding, he drops the rag and aims the bright red canister at the small fire.

_"Well, it can't get much worse,"_ he thinks.

The next explosion rocks the ground under his feet. The walls shake and a roaring sound fills his senses as he releases the canister and goes down - hard. He can dimly hear the canister as it rolls away, in a small circle. He smells smoke now.

Somewhere nearby, he thinks he hears John's voice.

OooOooO

John and Williams are out for only a few seconds. They both open their eyes and then look at each other.

"Good God!" Don says. He shakes his head, then winces and stops. Something has impacted the side of his skull and John sees where the blood begins to drip downward from a small cut.

John pushes himself to his knees, then gets up and is able to stand without falling. He glances around.

As an accord, both men turn to look at the heavy slabs of what used to be the formal dining table.

John raises an eyebrow. Then he remembers.

_Sherlock!_

He bends over to retrieve Don's mobile and stares at the cracked screen. There is blood on it.

"I dropped the bloody thing when the blast went off and –"

"And I fell on it," Don says quietly. He takes the phone out of John's hand and thumbs a number – Enders. Then he shakes his head grimly at John.

"No good, Captain Watson."

The two men look around, then John nods once. "All right. Don, you get the hell out of here. Head for the kitchen and the others."

Don looks at him. "Captain Watson, what are you – No. You can't go down there alone."

John looks at him grimly. "That's an order, Agent Williams. If Sherlock was talking to you and said he could get out, then he can get out. I'm getting him out."

John turns and strides determinedly from the room, followed by Don Williams.

In the outer hallway, Don catches hold of John's arm. "Sir, wait. Please. Let's go get Rob's phone and –"

John shakes his head. "No fucking time." He turns to look directly into Don Williams' concerned gaze. "Don, we both know another can go off at any minute. I'm going to get Sherlock out, now. You go meet up with the others." He glances at his watch, miraculously, it still works. Then back up at Don.

"If we're not out in – give me five minutes to get to him – then send someone down. But only if there are no more explosions. And use Enders phone to call Sherlock. Or text him. Tell him I'm on my way to get him out. Now!"

Both of them can clearly hear the sound of sirens as they approach the mansion.

Don nods at John. Then turns and rushes toward the kitchen area

John turns the other way, toward the main stairwell that leads down to Sherlock's lab. As he runs, he pulls out his mobile and stares at the screen. Then he shoves it back into his jeans pocket as far as it will go.

OooOooO

Outside the mansion, Galen Dennison helps Maggie to a sitting position under the large tree. Then he collapses beside her.

They both look up as Lori Hansen comes up and sits down beside them on the soft winter grass. She looks at the mansion.

"From out here, you can't really see any damage," she says quietly.

Rob Enders looks up as Don Williams rushes up to them.

To the side, Terry Roaman talks with the two relief agents. Lori watches them for a moment, then turns her head to watch as an ambulance, and a fire engine roar up the long driveway.

Roaman and the two other agents hurry to meet them. Their orders are to keep everyone - and that includes all fire personnel - out of the manor until they can ascertain if the IED's have all been detonated.

" _And how in bloody fuck we're going to do that, I've no idea,"_ Terry Roaman thinks.

Don looks at the three who sit on the ground, then up to Rob Enders, who stands next to them.

"Rob, call Sherlock, text him if you have to. Tell him Captain Watson's – tell him John Watson is on his way to get him and bring him out."

Rob stares at Don. But does not argue. He holds his phone up to his ear and thumbs Sherlock's number.

Beside Maggie, Galen moans slightly and sways. His right hand grabs his chest. He struggles for breath.

Lori puts one slim hand on his arm. "Doctor Dennison!"

OooOooO

John makes his way around piles of debris. He occasionally has to stop and re-orient himself with the interior of the house. Everything has changed, like the landscape in war. He stops and looks at one particularly huge gash in the wall, that clearly shows the underlying structure of the hallway.

His text chime sounds. John's pulse quickens. He pulls his mobile out of his pocket and stares, unbelieving, at the small screen.

**JOHN**

**TURN BACK. LAB FIRE**

**CHEMICALS**

**CAN'T SPEAK**

**SH**

John's eyes widen and his heart begins to race. He hurries forward, scrambling over and around wood, mortar, brick, torn-up carpeting, items of furniture until he is – nearly – at the stairwell that leads down to Sherlock's lab. He checks his watch. And all the time, he moves forward, he begins to carry on a mental conversation with Sherlock. He mentally screams at the detective.

" _You told Don you could get out of the sodding door, Sherlock. So get out of the sodding door. I'll be there in a few, you utter bastard!"_

And then he's at the stairwell. John stands, unmoving.  A rock has lodged in his throat and he can barely breathe.

"Oh my fucking God!"

His voice sounds harsh, alien to his own ears. He stands and looks around at devastation.

Another blast. This one comes from behind him. Obviously, the hallway he has just left. The floor rocks under his feet and John puts out a hand to steady himself against what used to be a small side table but is now three wobbly legs and a jagged wooden frame. He dimly remembers seeing flowers on it. And a vase.

Suddenly, his breath catches as he thinks of the detective. His eyes fill, but he hurries forward. As John moves through the manor, his ability to breathe seems compromised. The mansion continues to rock around him and he hears the unmistakable sound of falling masonry.

His text chime sounds. He stops and fishes his mobile out of his pocket by his fingertips.

**CAN'T REACH DOOR.**

**I'M SORRY, JOHN**

**SH**

_Sherlock – NO!_

John sobs out loud, but he keeps moving. And now he's running, crying as he runs, dodging plaster and bits of the ceiling as it rains down on him.

His heart is in his throat and all he can think is _: Sherlock … Sherlock … Sherlock_ …

His love's name has become a litany and it echoes, over and over and over again, through John's mind as he moves through the shaking manor, the house that now trembles under his very feet.

He has a death grip on his mobile and keeps glancing at the screen – nothing.

Finally, he shoves it deep into his jeans pocket and keeps moving through the debris. Plaster dust fogs the air and he finds it difficult to take a deep breath.

He wants to scream Sherlock's name – but is loath to waste his oxygen. Then he's there, at the lower stairwell, or where the lower stair should be.

It's almost totally blocked.

John groans. It's nearly a scream but he bites it back and keeps swiping at his eyes, in a futile attempt to wipe the dust and dirt that now swirls through the air out of his eyes.

He flashes back to Afghanistan – and the constant blowing winds, the merciless sand that crept into his corneas, down the back of his neck, and inevitably found its way into all the cracks and crevices of his uniform. But he has no wet compresses now to wipe this shite out of his eyes.

He'll have to let his tears do that for him.

John shakes his head in fury. _Screw this_! How in bloody hell is he going to clear this mess to get to Sherlock?

_"Dear God, let him live."_

Another explosion rocks the ceiling above and behind him. John hears the haunting sound, the weirdly creaking sound of timbers about to give way.

That decides it for John. He takes one step back, two more, then runs forward, jumps and clambers up over the largest chunk of debris, what looks to be the remains of the upper stair all jumbled together with chunks of mahogany, twists of carpeting, and a slab of mortar and brick the size of a small car. His fingers scrabble for purchase on the jagged surface; he feels the sharp edges cut into his fingers, his palms. He grabs, pulls himself up and is just – able – to look over it, and nearly sobs with relief when he can see partway down the stairs.

This seems to be the largest obstruction.

He pulls himself up the rest of the way, over, then drops down the other side. He's on the stairs, the stairs leading downward to the lab, to Sherlock. And now he has to slow down. He can't risk a twisted ankle or broken leg. And end up trapped down here, trapped away from the man he loves.

He hears the text chime and he stops, one hand balanced precariously against a wall, while he roots for his mobile with the other. It's stuck in the bloody pocket of his jeans. The jeans that cling to him like a second skin due to the sweat that drenches his body. Finally, he tugs it free. Clouds of dust nearly obscure the screen but he swipes at it with one shaking hand, reads the tiny words, which he can just make out.

**I SHERLOCK ,TAKE THEE JOHN**

**SH**

John's eyes widen. He shoves the phone back into his pocket as deep as it will go and starts back down the stairs.

" _Dear God, no. Just – No!"_

And now his mental litany has changed, as another explosion, this one far off, rocks the walls and the stair risers under his feet. He can't help it; his mind takes over and as he makes his way over and around and through, he automatically supplies the response:

**I John, Take Thee Sherlock**

The steps shudder under his boots and John nearly loses his balance, but recovers at the last moment, neatly dodges another piece of ceiling as it thuds down next to his left foot. Then he's down the last step and around the corner. He can – almost – see the outline of the laboratory door from this distance.

Only a few dozen feet, he thinks. Not even that. But here the destruction is far worse.

Huge chunks of mortar, of wall and the upper stairs, lie in piles along the hallway, like uneven rocks at a shoreline. He begins to pick his way over and around them, feeling his way gingerly in the occluded air. He can barely see his own booted feet now.

_Slowly now. Don't trip. Don't twist an ankle. You fool – watch it!_

He clambers over and around more chunks of brick, mortar and material he cannot even recognize. Perhaps it's part of a wall. And as he makes his way – his maddeningly slow way – toward the blessed outline of the door, he hears the text chime again but decides not to stop to -

_Wait! What if – check it, you idiot !_

He stops, takes a breathe, and fishes it once more out of his pocket.

John holds his mobile in one shaking hand, a hand covered in dust, and plaster and filth, and swipes at the screen. He's terrified he will drop and break the phone and have no way to communicate with his partner.

Sod that "partner" shite – with his _Husband. With Sherlock._

**FOR BETTER FOR WORSE**

**SH**

John sobs out loud now, shoves the mobile back into the deepest recesses of his pocket and makes his cautious way around another pile of debris. The dust is far worse down here and he can barely take a deep breath.

He lifts his left sleeve up to cover his mouth and attempts to slow his breathing. He can just see the outline of the door a few yards away. Is he this close, really? This bloody close?

A third explosion, this one farther away than the other two, barely rocks the walls. But he feels it through the soles of his boots.

**For Better, For Worse**

Something large and heavy, a chunk of mortar, rips loose from the corner of the ceiling, tumbles downward, and glances off his left side. John instinctively recoils from the unexpected blow - and feels one of the recently-knit ribs give way. He can feel the sharp edge as it threatens to press inward. Pain assails him and he grimaces as he wraps his arm around his side.

He gasps as a dizzy spell hits him and he puts out one hand, splays his fingers against the wall. A sharp stinging sensation spreads through the nerves of his palm and he realizes that large chunks of plaster have broken off the wall and he's put his hand right against the newly-exposed support beams, against wood and nail. He pulls back a palm suddenly torn and covered in blood and white dust. He looks at it, then wipes the blood and dust on his jeans.

Suddenly exhausted, John bends forward to rest his hands on his thighs, just for a moment. He gasps for air, but a sudden sense of urgency pushes him on and he straightens up to make his shaky way the last few feet. His right arm hugs his ribs and he tries to take small breaths. The pain from the newly-cracked (broken?) rib threatens to eclipse his world.

He's dizzy from the effort to breathe, which has, nearly, become a torment.

And now he's at the laboratory door. He grabs at the handle. It doesn't budge.

Locked from the inside.

And he doesn't have the key.

Of course, he doesn't. No blasted key! This is where Sherlock keeps the samples of Franks' drug. And the detective is the only one who holds the keys, as far as John knows.

John rests his forehead, white with plaster dust and filth, against the door.

**_Sherlock! Sherlock !_ **

He takes a breath, screams the name, pounds against the door with his fists. But it's made out of near solid steel. Steel that feels too warm to the touch. He doesn't even know if the detective can hear him pounding on the other side. John tilts his head against the door and curses Mycroft Holmes to the very pits of hell for giving him such a useless phone. The bloody useless phone that won't let him text. Or call Sherlock's phone.

One last time, he punches Sherlock's number into the keyboard to try to call him but there's no still no response.

There's no way that Sherlock can even know he's standing just a few feet away from him.

John screams at his partner in his head. Tries to send a mental picture.

" ** _For fucks' sake, Sherlock. I'm right here. Outside this blasted door in this stinking bloody hallway."_**

**_Sherlock ! Sherlock!_ **

John shuts his eyes to think, but the plaster dust and dirt scratch his corneas. He jerks his eyes open again and looks at the door in front of him. He stares bloody murder at the few inches of steel that separate them. He feels he could tear the door off its hinges with his bare hands. If it had hinges.

He wants to scream. Run around in circles. Tear the walls apart with his fingertips.

He's afraid if he gives way to this emotion, to this overwhelming sensation of fear and desperation that threatens to choke off his air supply, that he'll faint right there.

And be no good at all to the man trapped on the other side.

His text chime sounds. John slowly tugs the phone out of his pocket and holds it flat on one shaking hand.

**IN SICKNESS AND IN HEALTH**

**SH**

John screams _his_ name now. And coughs as he begins to choke on the overwhelming amounts of dust in the air.

**No, Sherlock, NO ! Don't DO this!**

A fourth explosion – and this one sounds as if it is directly overhead. Over _their_ heads. This one shakes the walls and the ceiling, seems to rock the very foundation of the old manor and then he hears it. John hears it as something - h _uge_ \- rips, tears, gives way and finally falls on the other side of the locked door. Whatever it is, is large enough and falls with enough force to rock the surface of the steel door under his hands. The very floor shudders under his feet.

**_No. No. No. NO! Sherlock !_ **

He leans his shaking body against the stainless door and slowly slides down it, his palm leaving a trail of blood and white plaster in its wake.

John's leg suddenly crumbles under him and he comes to rest on the tiled floor, his back to the hated door, his feet pulled up. He punches a clenched fist into his bloody leg and looks at his filthy boots.

**In Sickness, and In Health**

He lowers his head, takes a breath and begins to push himself upright again, using the wall as leverage to help him get back on his feet.

_To hell with this! And Fuck this!_

There _has_ to be a way in. There has to be! John thinks of the diagrams that Sherlock gave him. The diagrams of the manor. The rooms and hallways and the - He shakes his head. This is the only hallway – the only entrance. There is no other door, no other way in or out of this room.

This is it. This one goddamned door behind his back.

As he attempts to stand upright, pain rips through his leg and he again slides back down the wall. With an effort and to ease the agony, John pulls his legs up and rests his crossed arms on his knees. He ducks his head.

" _Just for a second,"_ he thinks. Just a few seconds, that's all he needs.

John knows it's his imagination, but he can swear he smells smoke, the acrid smell of burning chemicals. That thought alone is enough to propel him back to his feet. He slides upward along the wall, then stands shakily, finally balances against the door, both hands splayed out over the steel that feels warmer by the minute. He ducks his head to think.

The text chime sounds.

John pulls the phone out of his filthy jeans, holds it up to his face. Dust is raining down around him now and it's become a near constant stream of white and brown, a steady curtain of particles, and he has to blink the white powder out of his eyes. He swipes at them furiously, swiping his own blood over his forehead and across his eyelids. He rubs at a streak of red against the mobile screen. He can just make out the tiny words, black against the white of the screen that he holds in his shaking fingers. He shelters the phone, the precious, precious phone, from the plaster dust with the palm of his other hand.

He squints to read the small letters.

**TILL DEATH DO US PART.**

**I LOVE YOU, JOHN WATSON.**

**ALWYS HAV**

**SH**

At the words, John falls, as if stricken. He sinks to his knees, head bowed and leans forward to rest his forehead against the steel door. The door that definitely feels hot to him now, the door that is locked from the inside, the door that is in all probability totally blocked from the other side.

**Sherlock !**

John turns slowly to a sitting position in the debris, until his back rests against the door. He pulls his knees up, crosses his arms over them and bows his head onto his shaking arms.

_Sherlock … Sherlock … Sherlock …_

**OooOooO**

***** THERE BUT FOR THE GRACE OF JOHN WATSON


	23. Chapter 23

**These lads, in their current incarnation, belong to the BBC and not to me, and in their original incarnation, to the Estate of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, may his name be Blessed.**

**THE BOYS OF BAKER STREET**

**CH. 23**

**In which Agent Williams learns to count; Jake and Galen find their courage; and Agent Enders saves the day.**

**PROMISES: PAIN; ANGST; BRAVERY UNDER FIRE; EVERLASTING LOVE AND COMMITMENT; PERSONAL SACRIFICE; VIOLENCE. AND MULTIPLE MARRIAGE PROPOSALS. TWO OF THEM STICK – ONE IS JUST HEARTBREAKING.**

**OooOooO**

AUTHOR'S NOTE: THIS CHAPTER OCCASIONALLY REFERS TO EVENTS IN MY FIRST NOVEL, **_THERE BUT FOR THE GRACE OF JOHN WATSON._** IF YOU ARE READING **BOYS,** BUT HAVE NOT YET HAD THE OPPORTUNITY TO READ **GRACE,** YOU ARE READING BACKWARDS (WELL DONE, YOU!) YOU MIGHT NOT GET ALL THE REFERENCES HEREIN. ALSO, YOUR READING EXPERIENCE WILL NOT HAVE THE SAME INTENSITY THAT I WORKED SO HARD TO CREATE FOR YOU.

**_GRACE_** RELATES JOHN WATSON'S KIDNAPPING AND FORCED DRUG ABUSE AT THE HANDS OF JAMES MORIARTY. IT DETAILS HIS DESCENT INTO HELL, WHILE SHERLOCK DESPERATELY SEARCHES FOR HIM.

OooOooO

John huddles outside the steel door, a few maddening feet from where his love may lie dying. The all too familiar buzzing sound echoes through his skull and he groans in agony. _No! Please, God ! NO!_

OooOooO

John wakes slowly. He groans as he swings his legs over the side of the bed. Every muscle, every freaking joint hurts. He turns to look at the sheets and grimaces. From the bone deep ache, and the obvious wreck of his bed, he has, once again, had an "episode" in his sleep. (His mind shies away from his analyst's diagnosis of PTSD. 'Episode' it is then). He glances at his bureau, notes his Army-issue Browning still lies there, safety on, and sighs in relief. At least this time, he didn't awaken while clutching the weapon in sweaty, shaking hands. He wonders, however, what it is doing on his bureau top and not tucked away in the top drawer.

He hopes he didn't waken Sherlock with all the noise, although the detective rarely sleeps these days. John knows his flat mate is more than aware of the night terrors that sometimes grip him with such intensity, that he wakes moaning, pinching back a scream by the simple expediency of pressing a clenched fist into his mouth. But so far, Sherlock has said nothing about the, thankfully, less and less frequent episodes and for that, John is grateful.

He makes his way to the shower and stands under the hot spray, far longer than usual, and tries to erase the gripping pain in his left shoulder. The constant stream of water eventually works its magic and slowly, slowly the tremors leave his muscles and he is at last able to stand without laying one hand flat against the shower stall for balance. While the water sluices over his aching body, John uses his right hand to kneed and fist the knotted scar tissue of his left shoulder until he is able, finally, to move his left arm without too much difficulty and without grimacing in pain.

He dresses in his usual jeans and foregoing a button-down, (he is simply too tired to do up the buttons) opts for a simple white tee, covered over by the familiar oatmeal jumper, Harry's bland, but much appreciated, gift. He feels chilled and hopes the heavy wool will warm him. Blessing his schedule, which means he is not on call at the clinic today, in fact, for the next two days, and therefore can take his time, he makes his slow way downstairs. As he enters their living area, he prays they don't have a case on, although he knows it must be driving his flat mate mad to be inactive this long.

Sherlock is nowhere to be seen but John hears the quiet sounds of the detective moving around in his bedroom, just down the hall beyond their small kitchen. John courteously prepares a second cup of tea and slice of toast, then sets the extra toast and mug together on the only corner of the table not taken over by some experiment or other, although it is dubious if the detective will even notice the gesture, let alone actually drink the tea and eat the toast.

Foregoing sitting at their beleaguered table, John carries his simple breakfast into their living area and sits both tea and toast down on the table next to his chair. He lifts the hot tea to his lips and sips cautiously. The comforting brew slowly begins to warm him and he sets the mug down and closes his eyes. He is, frankly, exhausted from the constant lack of truly restful sleep, and as he begins to drift, bits and pieces of his "attack" come back to him, in brilliant flashes, tiny recurring scenes from his own private horror movie. He winces at the pictures, as they play out behind his eyelids.

But then the familiar sequence changes. And John frowns, as an elusive sense memory surfaces, the memory that sometime during the night, a steady hand with long fingers somehow found its way onto his scalp, stroking through his hair over and over and over again. He sighs. He cannot - make that _will not_ \- lie to himself. He has had his fair share of inappropriate dreams about the enigmatic man he lives with. He won't pretend otherwise, since it makes no difference. No one will ever know but him. But they usually stop short of actually imagining the detective sharing his bed.

Not this time. As he concentrates, John seems to feel the warmth of a lanky body next to his, impossibly long legs tangled with his in the sheets. He feels the slight shiver brought on by clever fingers as they comb through the fringes of his hair, sifting through the dark blonde strands, to soothe him like a parent soothes a fretful child. It felt _nice_. * The memory plays out _. Well, it was a lovely bit of a dream, while_ _it lasted._ He sighs again and opens his eyes to pick up his mug.

And nearly jumps out of his skin.

Sherlock stands directly in front of him and stares down at John with impossible quicksilver eyes. The detective is all eyes and curls and an ironic smile that this morning has taken up residence in the corner of the familiar curved lips. He looks at John, almost curiously.

John's heart rate increases, by about a million beats per minute. His pulse begins to race.

Before John can speak and without himself making a sound, Sherlock reaches down, gently takes the mug out of John's perfectly steady hand, sets it on the small table, then firmly pulls John to his feet by both wrists. John goes willingly, his muscles suddenly compliant and subservient to this man's will.

The two men stand in front of each other and as John's heart threatens to hammer its way out of his chest, Sherlock smiles gently, then lifts his hands to place them on each side of John's face. He bends slightly, kisses John on the forehead twice, plants a kiss on each side of the doctor's temple, then tilts his curly head and John feels the soft brush of full lips directly against his thin ones. John's eyes widen, then he shuts them and leans slightly into the unexpected – no, make that _fucking_ unexpected – kiss.

He doesn't know what to do with his hands and he reaches out, hesitant, uncertain, for the detective's waist. Finally, he just drops them to his side.

Sherlock pulls back, looks John in his dark blue, troubled eyes, and seems to find an answer there only the doctor can give him. He nods once, as if he has just affirmed something to himself, then turns away. He snags his mug of tea off the kitchen table and goes back to his room and shuts the door.

John stands there in total shock and disbelief. What just happened? Did Sherlock – did the detective just kiss him? Is he still in bed, dreaming? Is he feverish? Suddenly gone mad? *

Every nerve ending John possesses chooses to stand up and wave hello. And that's not the only thing that springs awake and demands he pay attention. After a minute, John gets his breathing under control, glances around their flat, glances down at himself, then turns to look down the short hallway toward that maddeningly closed door.

If Afghanistan taught him anything at all it was this: face your enemies head on. Or, in this instance …

John fists his hands by his sides, takes a deep breath, then strides determinedly down the hallway.

He opens the door to Sherlock's room without knocking. The detective is in the process of selecting a periodical from one of the stacks by his bed. John glances around once, then returns his gaze to the other man. This is the first time he has ever seen Sherlock's room and it is surprisingly tidy, other than the books and periodicals which sit near the bed in neat small piles. And the numerous, carefully stacked boxes of what he can only assume are case files.

The detective glances up at John, then straightens, one of those miraculous eyebrows raised in inquiry. He casually tosses the magazine, _The Practical Apiarist,_ onto his bed and gives John his full, if amused, attention.

John finds his voice, where it has, not surprisingly, run away to play amongst the rocks that have taken up residence in his esophagus.

"Sher-," he coughs once. "Sherlock? Want to talk about what just happened?"

Sherlock regards John with interest, as if the Army doctor is something fascinating he found under his microscope. The slight smile that curves his lips upward seems casually wicked in its intent.

"Problem?"

"The kisses, Sherlock. My flat mate just walked up and kissed the hell out of me."

Sherlock turns to face John fully and takes one step toward the doctor. His voice is a deep sinful drawl that sends hundreds of thousands of blood cells tripping over themselves to be the first to reach John's groin and, er, singular attribute. _God, his voice._

"Yesss. And _my_ flat mate just stood there and let it happen."

He takes one more step which brings him - almost - face to face with John Watson. He looks into John's eyes.

"So which one of us has the problem."

It is a statement, not a question.

John's eyes widen as he looks slightly upward into those eyes, strangely pale, almond-shaped and frankly glowing in the morning light that struggles in through Sherlock's curtained window. He clears his throat again.

"Sherlock –"

The detective tilts his head in inquiry. His gaze settles on John's thin lips, travels up to focus on John's steady blue gaze. And then he smiles. It is not the fake smile that Sherlock trots out at crime scenes or to worm information out of a suspect. It's the genuine smile, brilliant in its intensity, that John has seen less than a half dozen times in all the months he has lived with the detective. Less than that, even. The smile that has an immediate effect on the doctor's limbic system. And other organs.

Every doubt in John's body melts and dissolves in the light of that blinding smile. Something in the region of his tired heart springs to life and shouts _halleleujah._

"John, stop talking. Shut the damn door. And come here. That is, if you –"

Like an idiot, John grins back.

He stops talking. And shuts the damn door.

OooOooO

John raises his head and looks around. It's only been a few seconds, less than thirty seconds, actually. But he feels that hours have passed. One fist is tightly clenched around the dog tag that hangs from his neck by its simple chain. The edges cut into his lacerated palm.

The tiny pain serves as a focal point. He jerks his head back up and looks around at the devastation of the hallway. He's suddenly furious – at himself, at fate, but most of all at the man who's trapped on the other side of this bloody door. Trapped a few maddening feet away from him.

John shuts his eyes and tries again to communicate with Sherlock. He tries to send his thoughts a few feet away, behind the steel door at his back.

_Don't do this to me, you utter sod! Sherlock! Think! Use the bloody genius for something other than a wank!_

Then,

" _Please. Please, Sherlock. For Me. No. NO. For Us. For US, Sherlock ! Try ... just - TRY! I don't care how badly you're hurt, we can fix it! I promise you, we can fix it. Try, You bastard! Just try, for fuck's sake!"_

Finally,

" _I'll never forgive you, Sherlock. Never. So you'd better think of some bloody way to save your sorry arse right now!"_

He yanks the mobile from his jeans pocket and stares at the tiny screen.

Nothing.

And he most definitely smells smoke now, tinged with something else. Something that smells dreadful, cloying.

In desperation, John struggles to his feet, leans back against the ruined wall, just to the side of the damn steel door, and thumbs Rob Enders' mobile number, careful not to erase Sherlock's texts. The mobile rings and John holds it to his ear. He needs help and he needs it now. Explosions be damned. He knows he told Don to hold everyone off until all is clear but at the very least, Enders can call or text Sherlock and tell him that he is outside this goddamned door. That is, if the detective is still –

He must be having audio hallucinations. He clearly hears the mobile ringing in his ear and he also hears it as it rings out in the air around him.

"Captain Watson!"

John is marginally startled to hear Rob's voice from seemingly close by, rather than from the mobile he holds in his shaking palm.

"Captain Watson!"

John glances up. A few dozen yards away, Rob Enders comes into view around the end of the stairwell and begins to make his cautious way toward John.

"Rob." He pockets the mobile, shoving it carefully into the front pocket of his jeans, now thoroughly soaked through with sweat.

In another moment, Enders stands in front of him and lowers his own mobile, shuts down the link with his thumb. He frowns at John, then looks at the steel door. He drops his phone in his pocket with one hand, then brings up his other hand – and drops a key into John's open palm.

John's eyes widen.

Rob looks at him grimly. "Roaman had the extra key. He's been taking the drug samples and locking them up in the safe. Got here as fast as I could."

John nods and turns. He doesn't give a damn what Roaman was doing with the extra key. He inserts it into the lock, turns it and they both hear the tiny sound as it clicks. Then he grabs the handle.

The door won't open.

"Let me, Sir." Rob Enders braces one hand against the wall to the side of the door, then pulls steadily with all of his might. The door won't budge.

The two men stand there momentarily, as dust and plaster and bits of the mansion fall down around them. Then Rob yanks his phone back out of his pocket, pulls up Sherlock's number and is about to thumb the number, then hand the mobile to John, when John hears the text chime ring from his jeans. Frantically, he fishes his own phone out and looks at the screen.

John holds his phone up between them, and uses his free hand to automatically shield it from the particles that swirl in the air.

He opens the message and its one attachment. They both squint at the screen.

The photo is tiny, grainy, hard to make out as if there is something hazy in the air that prevents a clear photograph from being taken. _Smoke,_ thinks John and a red haze threatens to eclipse his mind. " _The lab is on fire. That's smoke."_

John frowns. It looks as if Sherlock has sent him a photograph of the lab but at an awkward angle, an angle that tells him the detective must have been lying on his back or curled up on the floor? He and Rob can make out what looks like a sink and a backsplash, then the cabinet over the sink and above that, a small section of –

John's eyes widen. "Shite!"

Both men hold a hand up to shield their eyes from the constant rain of particles as they tilt their heads back to look at the ceiling above them.

And at the single air exchange register, directly over their heads.

John now understands how he smelled smoke. And burning chemicals.

Rob Enders holds his mobile and thumbs Sherlock's mobile number. He holds it up as it rings. And rings.

No answer. John notes this fact, while he looks upward.

He frowns. The register is about one foot by three feet, and obviously designed to circulate air through the hallway. He remembers what Sherlock told him. This entire mansion is in the process of being renovated and the original fireplaces in each room above their heads have been steadily replaced with central cooling and heating vents. That includes the laundry room and utility areas. And that most definitely includes the storage area that has been serving as a laboratory for the detective all this time.

He looks back at the digital photograph Sherlock has just sent him. And his eyes catch on the small section of ceiling tile he can see directly at the top of the cabinet.

"Rob, is that – acoustic tile?" John asks.

Rob Enders takes his phone, looks at it, then nods. "Looks like it. Dropped ceiling. Which means, if he is able to get himself –"

"Yes!" John begins to look around the floor at his feet. Enders, who knows what he is looking for, joins him. For a full precious minute, both men search frantically through the rubble.

Then Rob lifts his head and looks at John. "Can't find a single stick or anything to use as a lever, Sir."

"Never mind, Rob. We'll use what we have."

John leans over and picks up a large chunk of mortar, one with particularly sharp edges. Rob watches him, and understanding dawns. John straightens up and looks steadily at Rob Enders. Rob nods once. Then he moves into position, directly under the air register. He looks up at the ceiling and narrows his eyes in an attempt to keep out the dust and plaster particles that rain down on his face. Then he looks at John Watson.

And nods again.

"Hurry, Sir."

Rob steadies himself, then bends slightly, and laces his hands together. Under other circumstances, John would take time to remove his boots. But the detective is nearly out of time. There has been the one photograph. And no other messages. He has not answered Rob's call.

He straightens, his fists clenched at his side, centers himself, then simply steps into Rob's outstretched, linked palms. The agent lifts him up in relatively steady arms and John struggles to remain upright as his fingers splay against the ceiling to steady his body. He is just below the edge of the metal strips that hold the air exchange register in place.

"Ready, Rob?" John presses one palm flat against the ceiling tile. And waits.

Rob Enders grunts. "Ready," he says. He braces himself.

Then John brings one knee up and simply lifts his foot, and then the other. The next instant, he is balancing himself on Ender's shoulders. Rob grabs John's ankles and lower legs in his sturdy hands and works to keep his body as straight as possible, while holding the smaller man on his shoulders.

John's fingers scrabble for a hold against the metal edges of the vent. But the register is set too firmly into the ceiling tile. John steadies himself by again placing one palm flat against the ceiling over his head, then swings upward, impacting the sharp edge of the mortar against the ceiling tile, right at its weakest bit, where the register connects with the tile.

Nothing.

From somewhere above their heads and far away, they both hear another explosion. But the floor remains steady and John feels only the barest of vibrations through his palm and fingers.

He lowers his arm to let the blood rush back, then swings upward again. This time, a small chunk of ceiling comes loose and falls.

He lowers his arm again. His muscles are screaming at him, but he ignores them.

"All right, there, Rob?" he grunts.

"All right. But hurry." Enders' arms begin to shake slightly, although John is not that heavy and the weight of the Captain's boots on his shoulders actually helps him to keep the smaller man held up, more or less steady.

But sweat begins to pour down his face.

"Hurry, Sir."

John nods slightly, lets his arm rest for just a moment, then swings it upward with all the muscle he can put behind it. The mortar connects with the broken edge of ceiling and this time there is a cracking sound and John is overjoyed to see the large chunk of broken drywall as it cracks and splits under the sharp edges of the mortar. He tosses the makeshift hammer far away from him so as not to hit Enders, then reaches eager fingers around the now broken edge and pulls. Hard.

The ceiling, nothing more than drywall, cracks easily under his hand. The register now hangs at an angle, still connected to the small section of ceiling still intact above John's head. He steadies himself again by placing his palm against the still intact portion, then grabs the cracked bit and yanks.

The ceiling tile comes apart in his hands in three pieces and the sections all fall past him before he can catch any of them or warn the man below. Rob Enders grunts, as at least one of the chunks hits him on the head.

His arms begin to shake in earnest and John can feel the shaking through his boots and leg muscles.

"Lower me and rest, if you need to," John starts to say.

"No! Keep on, Sir, you're nearly there." Besides, he's not entirely certain he can lift the Captain back up if he comes down from his precarious stand.

John nods determinedly. If he can pull himself up, then that will take the strain off Rob and the agent can lower his arms and rest a bit. Then he'll actually be in the ceiling and he can crawl along the support beams until he's more or less directly above the lab to their left.

Plans in place, John looks upward, then removes his hand from the one bit of intact ceiling he has been using to steady his body. He lifts both his arms and strains with his fingers to reach around the edge of the register, into the gaping hole, and pulls with all his strength.

The register cracks away from the drywall and he pulls it away from the ceiling in one hand, and flings that, too, away from them both. It clatters on top of rubble several feet away. He pays it no heed. His body shakes and Enders' body begins to tire in earnest.

"Rob, can you lift me any farther?" John's breath comes out in a gasp and his abused rib threatens his ability to breathe. _Damn it, so close. So very, very close._ He will not come down. He refuses. _Sherlock!_

Rob Enders grunts with the strain, then steadies himself, straightens a bit more, and slowly, slowly John inches upward. "I'm ok. Just keep on! Hurry!"

John takes a deep breath, reaches, and grabs, and this time his bleeding fingers get a firm hold on the now exposed wooden support beam. Slowly, he begins to pull himself up. Up and over into the gaping space where he can, finally, find his way into the ductwork itself.

He pulls himself up, and is suddenly knocked to the ground, tumbling downward past Rob Enders' body, taking Rob with him - as six feet of lanky consulting detective falls flat on top of them both.

The three of them fall into a dusty, painful heap and John feels it as the damn rib protests. But then John scrambles up, and grabs at the dark curls, nearly white now with dust and filth and more dust, tugs the detective's face to him. Sherlock groans but his eyes are open and he seems absolutely delighted to sit there and have his face manhandled by John Watson.

John laughs. He can't help it. He's sitting in piles of mortar and concrete, one of his ribs presses inward and threatens to tear a lung, he's torn and bleeding and the world is literally crumbling down around their heads – but all he can think, the only thought in his head is: _He's Alive. He's Alive. He's Alive. Sherlock's alive._

The detective grins tiredly at him, and puts up one shaking hand to the side of John's face. John barely registers that the palm is covered in blood. Blood that pours from the wound, reopened now, on the top of Sherlock's head. It drips through his dark hair and past his mercuric eyes and then spills downward onto John's palms as he holds the detective's face in his shaking hands.

All John can whisper, in a voice gone suddenly, painfully hoarse is, "You bastard. You utter, utter bastard." Over and over again.

Sherlock, who thought never to hear that voice again, does not dissuade him.

Rob Enders rises unsteadily to his feet. He coughs in the sudden downpour of yet more dust and plaster from the gaping hole of what used to be the ceiling, what's left of it. His arms and shoulders are on fire, but he grins at both of the men who sit on the broken floor, surrounded by rubble.

"Er, Gentlemen? Could we table the group hug until we get the bloody hell out of here?"

"Excellent advice," Sherlock's voice comes in a choked, painful whisper, the lining of his throat raw with inhaling burning chemicals. John has never been so glad to hear that deep baritone in his entire life.

John scrambles to his feet. He now definitely smells smoke - and flame.

"Come on, you," he urges. He helps propel the detective to his feet. Sherlock stands, but cannot seem to straighten all the way. He leans slightly on John's shoulders, then pulls back as he notices the wince.

"Rib?"

"Rib." John says. "Later - for both of us." The detective nods. He does not waste time in trying to speak.

John slings an arm around Sherlock's waist and turns to Rob Enders.

"Agent Enders, get us the hell out of here," he says.

"Gladly, Sir." Enders turns and begins to make his way back down the hallway, retracing his steps. His mobile is in his hand and he's calling one of the relief agents as he walks.

Shakily, John and Sherlock follow him. Sherlock does not speak, but John feels the detective's right hand tighten around his shoulder, and the long fingers grab and fist in John's filthy tee shirt, as his love holds onto his Army doctor, and even lets John take some of his weight.

They make their way back down the hall.

John has heard just the one explosion in the past several minutes. But as they round the corner and begin to climb the nearly blocked stairs, picking their way amongst the bits of mortar, ceiling and fallen wall, he hears something more ominous.

It sounds as if the skeleton of the mansion itself is groaning. John frowns and hurries Sherlock forward, keeping Rob Enders in sight all the while.

Somewhere, a small clock begins to count down in his head.

OooOooO

"Galen!" Maggie leans over and helps support Galen Dennison as he lies back, groaning slightly, in the soft grass. Lori jumps to her feet and runs toward the ambulance that has just pulled up the long drive.

Maggie uses the edge of her shirt to wipe Galen's sweating face. She frowns into his brown eyes.

"Galen, your heart," she murmurs.

He winces, and his brows pull together, then he sighs and his fist unclenches. She takes his hand in hers and keeps her other palm behind his neck, to help steady his head.

"Don't fuss, Maggie, I'll be fine." He looks up at the bright day. The sun has passed its zenith and is making its way down the other side. He looks into the still bare branches of the tree and at the branches that tower over their heads. He notes the myriad buds that means it will soon be green and blooming again. He sighs.

Then Galen turns his head to look at Maggie, as she holds his hand.

"I'm going to be fine, Luv," he says. She nods, and bites her lip.

"I know that, you idiot," she says with a shaking laugh. But it's a forced laugh and she lifts her head as Lori comes rushing back, followed by two paramedics, carrying their kits. She looks beyond them at the fire engine and Mycroft's men, who talk to the firemen. Her eyes widen as a long black car pulls up and parks behind the ambulance.

She bends over Galen and disengaging her hand from his, brushes his fringe away from his face.

"Mrs. Holmes is here," she says quietly.

Galen's eyes widen.

Lori rushes up and sinks to her knees on the other side of Galen, close but out of the way so the medics can begin their job. She looks at Maggie, then turns to watch as Regina Holmes exits her car and strides determinedly toward them. Lori's eyes widen. She believes she sees the Holmes servant in the back seat of the car. He remains there.

Another explosion, this one far off, rings through the early afternoon air. The medics look up from Galen Dennison, toward the mansion, both raise an eyebrow, then they lower their heads and get back to work. The head medic, a female whose name tag says Eagan, begins to quietly ask Galen to describe his "discomfort."

Maggie takes Galen's loose hand in hers again and holds on. She squeezes his fingers and is relieved to feel him tighten his fingers around hers. She looks up as a tall slim figure momentarily blocks the sunlight.

"Hello, Mrs Holmes," she says.

Regina Holmes stands back and regards them all, takes in the women's disheveled appearance, Galen Dennison's sweating countenance, the two paramedics who work over him.

Then she turns to regard the mansion. And she frowns.

"Where is Sherlock? And John Watson?"

Lori looks up at her. "Mrs. Holmes?"

OooOooO

**Eleven Minutes.**

John supports Sherlock's shaking form, over the detective's protests, as Rob Enders scrambles up and over the obstruction at the top of the lower stairwell. Rob grunts as he lands on the other side, nearly twisting an ankle in the process. He immediately turns and pulls himself back up and over the large tangle of mortar and brick, and rests on top of the rubble on his stomach, as he reaches for Sherlock's arms. He tries to avoid the man's bleeding and bandaged wrists, as he pulls the detective steadily up and over the barrier, as John supports Sherlock from behind.

"John, I hardly think this position is the one most conducive to –"

"Shut it, Sherlock!" John grunts in relief as the man's lanky form disappears over the barrier. He then pulls himself up, to encounter Rob's sturdy hand as he extends it to John. John takes it and Rob pulls him, too, over the barrier and one step closer to safety.

**Ten Minutes**

The head paramedic, Eagan, finishes questioning Galen. Her partner holds his strong fingers over the doctor's pulse point, as Maggie watches every movement. Eagan opens Galen's shirt, then affixes a small heart monitor.

Maggie frowns, then looks down into her man's brown eyes.

Galen looks upward at her. And he grins.

He opens his mouth to speak.

"Please, Sir, try to lie quiet for a few minutes. We need to stabilize you before we can move you," the second medic says.

Galen nods briefly. But his eyes never leave Maggie's brilliant green ones.

"Excellent advice," Regina Holmes says dryly.

Lori watches the mother of Mycroft and Sherlock as she looks toward the mansion. Her eyes study the older woman's lovely face. Lori frowns slightly, then looks at the mansion, and most particularly at the front entryway, where Rob Enders disappeared a few moments before, after speaking with Don Williams.

Regina glances over at the men, nods once, imperceptibly, but Don Williams sees it, and he leaves the two relief agents and the firemen and walks toward the small group under the tall tree.

Regina turns back, regards Maggie as she bends over Galen Dennison, then sighs and fixes Lori Hansen with her cool grey eyes.

"Ms. Hansen. Can you tell me what has happened here this morning?"

Lori begins to speak. Regina's countenance blanches, but Lori's certain she is the only one who sees it. Then Regina nods her thanks and turns to speak to Don Williams as the agent comes up to them.

Momentarily forgotten, Lori watches as a film crew van makes its way up the long drive and parks directly behind the long black car. She raises an eyebrow as one of the relief agents runs up to the film crew and engages in a rather animated discussion.

The sound of a helicopter has her tilting her head to watch as it comes into view, then hovers, more or less directly over the mansion. She can just make out the BBC news logo on the side.

She shakes her head.

**Nine Minutes**

"Carter? Carter? Come here at once, please."

Thea Brown sets down her teacup and regards the telly with suspicion. The sound is off, as she abhors the monstrosity, but she does occasionally recognize the necessity of keeping up with current events. In this particular instance, she has more than a vested interest in knowing what is occurring.

Her maid comes into the room, using her apron to dry her hands. She raises one eyebrow at Thea Brown.

"Yes, Mum?"

"I said come here, Carter. Don't stand there gaping like a carp."

She waves one hand at the screen. "What does that bloody caption say? I can't find my reading glasses."

Carter sighs, then bends forward toward the telly. Her eyes aren't that much better than her mistress's.

"It says something about a mansion exploding, Mum." She raises her head. "Will that be all, Mum?"

"What mansion, Carter? The mansion that is displayed on the screen can't possibly be—"

Carter sighs again. "It don't – doesn't say, Mum. I must have missed it." She turns on her heel and leaves the room.

Thea Brown picks up her mobile phone, the one modern indulgence she actually approves of, and makes a swift call. The tired voice on the other end only manages to increase her agitation.

"I'm afraid that Ms. McReedy has not called in this afternoon," the bored dispatcher tells her. "I believe she was, er arrested this morning. I highly doubt if her services will be needed—"

Thea Brown frowns. "What do you mean, 'arrested'?"

She hangs up. Thinks for a moment. Then shouts for Carter. "Carter! Get Miles Jackson on the phone for me, this instant."

She stares at the television screen

**Eight Minutes**

"Sherlock!" John calls his name as the detective stumbles and nearly falls to his knees. The world is spinning slowly and he starts to lift one hand to his head, thinks better of it, and lowers the hand again to twitch by his side. John gets a firmer grip around his love's waist, then straightens, forcing the other man to straighten with him.

"Come on, you stupid git," he grunts.

Sherlock smiles tiredly into his Army doctor's face, and nods. But does not speak. Rob Enders hurries back to them to take hold of the detective on his other side and together, the three of them make their way down the long hallway. Sherlock tries to straighten in order to take the burden of his weight off John. His Army doctor has not been successful at all in hiding the obvious pain he is experiencing. Sherlock frowns as he concentrates on moving through the utter devastation of the mansion. Bloody hell, but he detests this place.

John's breath comes in quiet gasps. His ribcage burns and he has no idea how much longer he can continue to help support Sherlock and still manage to breathe. Their surroundings appear surreal to him, and everything appears to be a bit fuzzy around the edges.

Rob Enders hurries both of them forward. " _Not much farther now,"_ he thinks. He wonders if he can keep both men on their feet. Captain Watson has tried to ignore his pain and distress, but the sweat that pours down the side of his face, gone pale under the slight tan, is a dead giveaway. The exArmy Captain and doctor is in obvious pain, but trying to hide it. Rob wonders how long John will be able to remain on his feet. He grits his teeth and tries to hurry them a bit faster.

**Seven Minutes**

"What do you mean, Miles Jackson does not respond?"

"I mean, Mum, that Mr. Jackson's mobile rings but no one answers it."

Carter stands there impatiently. She needs to get back to her baking. She regards Thea Brown and sighs. Her mistress is crazier than a loon. Everyone knows this. But so far, Carter has been able to handle her, in order to keep her position. Lately, however….

"Carter, would you be kind enough to get her Majesty on the line for me? I feel the need to ask her advice and protection in a private matter."

Carter sighs again. "Yes, Mum. I'll try to call the Palace." She turns on her heels and walks back to the kitchen to get to her baking.

Behind her, Thea Brown's eyes widen as she watches the telly's screen.

**Six Minutes**

"What do you mean a sodding mansion is exploding in the sodding countryside?" Greg Lestrade demands. His officer stands in front of him, grim-faced. But he knows the D.I. is not done yet so he doesn't answer. He just waits.

Lestrade waves a hand at the chaos of paperwork on his desk. "Just exactly what the hell is going on?" he demands. "I've got people out taking reports from citizens, frankly loony citizens, I might add, who absolutely insist an Apache helicopter was seen landing by the side of the bloody M4 yesterday. We've got reports coming in of snipers in the woods in suburbia and now you come in here and tell me that a mansion –" He breaks off in exasperation. "Where exactly _is_ this exploding domicile?"

His officer sighs. "I believe it's in the vicinity of er- Ascot," he says. "Sir," he adds. What he does not add is that at the news, Joe Rodriguez abruptly left his desk and literally ran from the building, followed closely by his partner, Officer Cates.

Lestrade sits back in his chair and stares at the man. "Ascot," he says quietly.

"Yes, sir. The news feeds are beginning to come in now. Sir."

Lestrade glances around his office, then sighs, picks up a pen, taps on the side of his desk with it a few times. Then he smiles once, grimly. He stands up and snags his empty tea mug off the edge of his desk. He walks to the door of his office.

His officer frowns. And follows him with his eyes. "Sir?"

Gregory Lestrade turns back to fix his subordinate with a look that can strip flesh from bones.

' _In the vicinity of Ascot' means one thing and one thing only. The bloody Holmes family._

Greg lifts his empty mug.

"Afraid that Ascot is not our area," he says. "And going forward, anything to do with the Holmes family is most certainly not our division. Going for tea now."

And he walks out of his office.

His officer stares after him.

**Five Minutes**

"Maggie Oakton, marry me."

The medic finishes affixing the heart monitor and then begins to watch a tiny screen. She glances up at Galen Dennison, then back down at the readout. "Sir? Doctor Dennison? Can you refrain from such _inflammatory_ remarks for a few? We need to get you—"

Galen huffs. "Yes, I sodding know. I have to be sodding stabilized and then you can sodding get me to hospital," he says with exasperation.

"Galen," says Maggie. She holds his hand and looks into his eyes. To her knowledge, until today, Galen Dennison has never cursed. Not once. He appears to be making up for lost time.

_Wait! Did he just ask her?_ She bites her lip. "Galen, this is probably not the best time to —"

"Maggie – Margaret Oakton. Just for once, would you hush and let me finish a statement?"  
Maggie's eyes widen. But she hushes.

"For Gods sake, Maggie. We've nearly been blown to kingdom come. I nearly lost you to a bloody dining room table. The world is exploding around us in bombs and got knows what else. And neither one of us is getting any younger here. Marry me!"

Maggie looks down at the man she loves. Her eyes are a brilliant green in the afternoon sun.

Regina Holmes turns her head to regard the two doctors with interest.

Next to her, Don Williams finishes speaking with Terry Roaman. They have both just talked with Mycroft Holmes over his mobile. Don nods, then consults his watch, and looks at the mansion's entryway.

"Twelve explosive devices," he says. To no one in particular.

Lori looks up at Agent Williams. "Sir?"

He turns to look down at the small nurse as she sits on the grass and watches the medics care for Dennsion.

"Mr Holmes, who is still some way out, has just informed me that Ms. McReedy confesses she planted twelve explosive devices in and around the house. They're on a timer. But she suffered some sort of nervous breakdown before she could reveal further details." He looks over at the house and frowns.

Regina Holmes says nothing.

Lori considers. It has been some time since the last explosion. She narrows her eyes and counts backward in her head. Then she looks up at Williams. "Sir? Agent Williams?"

He turns to look down at her again. "Well, Ms. Hansen?"

"I – I've only counted eleven," she says quietly.

Regina Holmes, Don Williams, Terry Roaman, Maggie Oakton and Lori Hansen turn as one to look toward the entryway of the mansion.

"Oh shite," Galen Dennison says quietly.

"Hush, Doctor Dennison," the medic tells him.

Lori bites her lip. And waits.

**Three Minutes**

John's breath comes in short gasps now and Sherlock has removed his doctor's arm from around his waist and refuses to go farther unless John agrees to walk in front of him. John shakes his head. "You crazy bastard," he says. "Just move your arse, Sherlock." He's still too overjoyed to see the detective alive and breathing and relatively unscathed to even consider his own discomfort.

All three of them make their hesitant way around a jumble of blasted and broken furniture, bits of wall, mortar and brick, and a huge chunk of something that can only be the former ceiling from the main hallway.

Enders hurries them forward. "Please, Captain. We're nearly at the front entryway." He looks at the two men. "Williams, Roaman and I and the others managed to partially clear it before I came down for you. There's just the one large obstruction left. We're nearly there."

John frowns and moves to put his arm around Sherlock's waist again. "No, John," Sherlock whispers. He pauses and watches as Enders clambers over part of the upper stairwell, which all but blocks their progress. Then he nods determinedly and holds out his hand to John.

John looks at him with gritted teeth. "I swear to God, Sherlock Holmes, if you don't move your—"

"John, we can stand here and argue until both of us go down for the count," Sherlock says, his voice a wreck of itself. "Or you can take my hand, my dear Doctor Watson, and together we can help each other out of this bloody nightmare."

Sherlock holds his hand out to John. He raises one ironic eyebrow. "What say you, Doctor?"

Ahead of them, Rob Enders glances back, then hops down from the blasted mountain of stair risers. He turns to regard the two men who stand just a few feet behind him, on the other side of the last major obstruction.

"Bloody hell, would the both of you gents just move it, please?"

Sherlock holds out his hand. John looks at him. And then places his sturdy hand in Sherlock's.

The detective nods and then begins to hurry the both of them forward. At the barrier, without preamble, he bends and all but lifts John over it and drops him to the other side. John grits his teeth, but bites back his retort and goes along with being picked up and plunked down like a bloody child. He decides to take it up with Sherlock after they are out of the blasted house. Sherlock easily scrambles over the barrier and the three of them move forward. They are nearly running now. Or as close to it as the two injured men are able.

"Hurry," Enders says. He has been counting in his head. Are the explosions over? How many did she plant? He remembers ten. Or is it eleven? Something about the uneven number nags at the agent.

And then they are nearly at the front entryway. Enders hangs back slightly to give Sherlock and John the opportunity to go in front of him. But John puts out a hand and grabs Rob Enders by his sleeve.

"Come on, Rob. That's an order," he says through gritted teeth. The three men stumble past the entryway table, one of the few remaining bits of furniture in the mansion that hasn't been near totally destroyed.

As he passes the mahogany table, Sherlock remembers something. He lifts his head and looks straight out into the bright day. He realises the front door is wide open. Else that or the carved door panels were blown off their hinges. The beautiful cut glass panels on each side are cracked and utterly destroyed.

**Two Minutes**

Sherlock reaches the front door, then turns back for John. His eyes widen as he sees the doctor bend over and place one hand on the round table to steady himself. John's breath comes in gasps now and he has one arm wrapped around his abused rib.

He raises his head to glance at Sherlock and to wave the detective to go on, he'll be there in a few. And Sherlock looks from John's face to the round table he has his palm splayed over.

_This is his nightmare,_ Sherlock realises. The waking nightmare he has experienced, off and on, since the day John was taken. The nightmare that has he and John standing on opposite sides of a river, as the two of them slowly move away from each other. " _Like hell,"_ he thinks.

"Bloody hell!" he hollers. "Enders, it's the table. The timer's in the damn table!"

Rob Enders, just behind John Watson, glances up at Sherlock, then at John as the doctor bends over and tries to catch his breath.

And suddenly he understands.

**One Minute**

Sherlock starts to move forward, to go back for John.

"No!" shouts Enders. He holds up a palm, outwards, toward the detective. "I'll get him out." Then he bends toward John and touches the man on his shoulder. "Come on, Captain Watson. We're nearly there."

John nods. "All right, Rob. I just have to catch my breath." He wraps his arm more tightly around his ribs. And gasps as he inadvertently presses too hard on the bruised or cracked rib.

"Bloody hell," he says through clenched teeth. Then he hears it. The slightest of sounds. And he remembers earlier that morning, as he passed by entryway table, thinking his watch battery needed checking.

He regards the polished and gleaming surface under his palm with dawning horror.

"Rob." He drops his arm from around his ribcage and he and Rob Enders rush, as one, toward the front door – or where the front door used to be.

"John!" Sherlock moves toward them both. Rob is just ahead of John and reaches the front door and Sherlock, just as the timer that occupied the little box on the floor of Cynthia McReedy's car at last completes its assigned mission on earth. It counts down to the very last explosion. And departs the planet in a whoosh of sound as the last bomb, the twelfth bomb, explodes.

The twelfth bomb … the one Cynthia McReedy casually placed amongst the glittering drops of the entryway chandelier, as she stood on a ladder to dust it. The chandelier which hangs directly over Sherlock's and John's and Rob Enders' heads. The chandelier that explodes outward and downward, but mostly upward in one huge rush of sound that resembles nothing more than the roar of a thundering waterfall, a waterfall accompanied by the rainbow hues of a multitude of deadly crystalline shards.

And it is this last explosion that finally weakens the already weak roof structure over the front hall. The only thing that saves any of their lives is the fact that the bomb expends most of its energy upward. It blasts right through the ceiling over the entryway.

Sherlock is thrown backwards by the shockwave, blown off his feet, and two feet out the front door. He lands in a heap on the walk in the bright sun, alive, but momentarily stunned. Rob Enders, who is also thrown backwards by the deflected blast, stirs first, then comes to suddenly. He gets to his feet, although unsteadily, just as the detective opens his eyes.

"John." Sherlock's voice comes out as a croak. Realization hits and he pushes himself upward to try to stand. He is not initially successful and he falls to his knees. He glances into the house, and starts in horror as he realizes that John has been knocked to the ground and his apparently unconscious form lies there, nearly covered in shining bits of crystal glass.

"John." He frantically tries to rise. The pain in his head has him groaning but he ignores it in his manic effort to get to his Army doctor. This time, he manages to get to his feet. And stand. He extends his arms slightly for balance.

Then he hears it. The deep groaning sound of masonry and support structure that frankly has had just about enough.

There's no time. Seconds. Less than that.

Sherlock glances upward, then at John. And his world threatens to black out and swamp his heart and soul in an overwhelming wave of fear and utter terror. " _John, I can't make it,"_ he thinks. _"I can't make it, John!"_

Still, he begins to move forward.

But then Rob Enders is on his feet and at John's side, even as John begins to stir. Sherlock thinks he hears the doctor mumble something at Enders, perhaps he's ordering him to get the hell out.

Sherlock will never know.

The next to last thing he hears Enders say is "Not this time, Captain," and the last thing he sees is Rob Enders as he bends over John Watson, lifts the smaller man in his arms and literally throws him into Sherlock's outstretched arms. And as Sherlock and John go down together in one tumbled heap, Sherlock thinks he hears Rob Enders say, "Sorry, Anthony, Luv."

Then John is back up and on his feet and turning to shout something at Rob, as the entire front entryway ceiling caves in. And buries the agent in a half ton of debris, masonry and support beams.

OooOooO

Jake opens his eyes carefully, grateful the room light is dim. He knows he's in hospital. He knows he's been shot. And he suspects he is alone. He frowns at the thought.

Silence. He _is_ alone. He takes a few measured breaths through his nose and realises each inhalation is accompanied by a small cool rush of oxygen, delivered by the tubing under his nose. The only sound he can hear, at first, is the heart monitor somewhere behind him. And his own heartbeat. And that tiny inward rush of cool air as he breathes.

He wonders who he has to thank for the blessed peace of a private room. He sighs. He was having the most wonderful dream.

" _Make that delirium,"_ he tells himself sadly. He blinks and his breath catches as slender, slightly tan fingers cross his line of vision and brush a single curl out of his eyes.

He turns his head slowly. And his eyes widen as he gazes into her liquid eyes.

"Liz-abeth?" he whispers. He hesitates over her name, even as he feels his heart jump to life.

He can feel bandages around his head. But she just brushed her hand through his hair, so presumably he has some left. They didn't have to shave all of it. Jacob Lynn is not a vain man, far from it, but he feels that his curls and his outgoing personality are just about all he has to bring to the party. So he's very happy he still has some hair.

He'll worry about any _lasting_ effects of a head wound later. When he can think more clearly. At the moment, all he can think about is that he is here. And so is she. And that's enough for now.

"Shh, don't try to move too quickly, too fast," she murmurs.

She smiles sweetly at him. His eyes threaten to shut of their own accord and he has to force them to stay open. Is she here to visit him? Check up on him, the way she or Mr. Holmes courteously visits any of his people who are injured in the line of duty?

Lizabeth reaches beside her, comes up with a small cup and a straw. She holds the cup at a slight angle so he can drink and the cold water tastes better than anything he has ever tasted in his life. He watches the play of light over her wrist as she holds the bent straw to his lips. Then he nods slightly and she sets the cup back down, turns to him again.

"Lizabeth?"

Her fingers graze over his wrist, at least he thinks it's his wrist but it seems to be bandaged or covered with something soft and he can, barely, feel her fingertips as she touches him. He wants, really wants to tilt his head to watch her, but he can't manage it just yet. He cannot remember ever being this tired in his life.

But he must stay awake. He has to stay awake.

He has to know. Delirium or –?

"Jacob, are you in pain?" Her cool fingers continue to stroke over his wrist, then move up to the side of his face. His eyes widen. Slowly, he shakes his head.

"No. At least. No. Not much." It's the faintest of whispers. She looks at him closely.

"That's fine, then. You've got pain killers in your IV and they come in constantly to check on you. But if you start to feel it, you have to let us know," she murmurs.

Wide-eyed, pulse racing, he can only manage the barest of nods.

"You're -," he coughs slightly and frowns as the movement jars something in his right shoulder. He tries to take a deeper breath, then feels the stretch of bandages over his shoulder and around his chest. And his right arm. Someone has strapped his arm to his chest, so he can't move it.

Shot. He was shot. He tries to shift slightly in the hospital bed and she frowns.

"Jacob? Jake? Don't move too quickly. Here, let me help you."

She moves out of his range of sight for just a moment and then is back again. She places a small pillow next to his right side, then gently shifts the edge of it under his elbow and his ribcage. He can now relax his arm muscles and he sighs at the relief.

"Better?"

He nods again. His eyes feel heavy. Damn it! He cannot – he will not fall asleep until he knows. Has he been so out of it, so drugged that he dreamt all of it? Everything? He shuts his eyes for a moment and tries to remember.

He remembers being shot. He remembers seeing Sherlock Holmes' oddly light eyes widen, then he remembers falling. And the next instant – the next instant he was looking at Doctor Watson as he catapulted out of bed and grabbed Doctor Oakton to yank her down to the floor.

"Wats-," he coughs again. She moves as if to help him, but he shakes his head slightly to show her he's okay. "Doctor – Watson?"

She shakes her head. "As far as I know, he's just fine. There have been some," she pauses as she considers the injured man in the bed. Then she smiles. The temperature in the room instantly rises a few degrees. And his heart lifts. "I think the word I'm looking for is _incidents_." She changes position slightly which brings her face, her lovely face closer to his eyes.

Good. He can see her more clearly now. But damn it, his eyes are closing and he doesn't want them to.

He has to know. _Now. You idiot. Now. Just ask her. Before it's too late._

"Incidents?"

_Not_ what he meant to ask. His eyes close and he sighs. He's becoming too tired to care. In a moment, he'll be gone again. _Now you arse. Now or never._

He jerks his eyes open and looks at her. Lovely, so unbearably lovely. And so warm. And so very, very alive.

He wishes he could move the fingers of his right hand to touch her. His left seems to be lying next to him and it, too, does not want to obey his commands.

He hears rather than sees someone come in.

"All right, are we?" The bright voice is jarring and he keeps his eyes closed. And just nods slightly.

He hears her shift in her chair. "He's awake. Barely. I gave him some water."

"Very good. He'll drift in and out because of the pain meds. But he's doing very well. One of us will be in shortly to check his vitals. Do you need anything? "

"No. I think we have all we need right here."

"Good. It won't be long before one of us is back in. It's nearly time to switch out his antibiotics."

He hears the door close gently. Waits a beat. Then opens his eyes. He's more and more sleepy and wishes his mouth would just obey his brain. For once.

He turns his head slightly and blinks her face back into focus. He tries to smile at her.

"I think you're right," he whispers. His voice sounds ragged, hoarse in his ears.

She brushes the curl back from his forehead again, the same one that has managed to escape the bandages that nearly cover his scalp.

She bends over slightly and he can feel her warm breath against his cheek.

"Right about what, Jacob?" she asks softly.

He looks into her eyes and knows – _he knows_ – that it wasn't a dream. Or the fever. She's real. She's here and provided he can manage not to act the fool, then perhaps, just perhaps -

His lips are dry and his mouth is already dry, despite the water she just gave him. _The drugs, it's the drugs, you idiot. Just go to sleep. Leave it for a few. Sleep now._

She repeats the question. "Right about what?"

"We have all we need right here," he murmurs. And promptly falls back to sleep.

She smiles at him.

Anthea shifts so she can lean up against the rails of his bed. She brings up the second small pillow she's been holding in her lap and carefully places it next to him, not close enough to hurt him if he should move but close enough to be there for him, in case he needs her.

She moves her hand so she can brush her fingers over his hand, where it lies on top of his chest, careful to avoid his bandaged shoulder and arm. Then tilts her head onto the pillow. She shuts her eyes. And drifts off, listening to his quiet breathing.

In his sleep, Jacob Lynn smiles.

OooOooO

With all of them frantically working, it takes less than a minute to uncover the fallen agent. John instinctively knows it's sixty seconds too long. But his eyes widen in relief as he sees the slight movement that means Rob Enders still breathes. He determinedly helps uncover the wounded man from the rubble that all but obscures his body.

Sherlock works steadily, but dizzily alongside all of them. Every bone in Sherlock's body, every muscle he possesses, screams at him to lie down and be done with it. He ignores his body. And picks up and tosses away another chunk of masonry.

John's side aches and his body aches and his legs and arms shake. He's dripping blood from small cuts and abrasions and something warm has begun to trickle down his side, inside his shirt. But he tosses aside another chunk of wood and reaches for a large piece of metal (part of the huge carriage lamp that once hung outside the front door?)

Then he sees a hand, an arm, Rob's dark head. All of them work faster.

Once they have the agent free, John ignores the blood that soaks the front of the agent's shirt, the streaks of red that crisscross his hands and arms, the smears of scarlet across his forehead. He can make no determination until they get the man away from this damned house that has become the very epitome of hell on earth. He hates the very sight of it.

They carry Enders as gently as possible away from the house, far away, in case there are more explosions. Finally, at John's curt nod, Don Williams and Terry Roaman lay Enders down on the soft grass, not that many feet from the others. John moves quickly to assess the damage. He tries not to wince at the pull of his cracked rib as he kneels in the grass over Rob Enders' quiet form. The agent's eyes are closed and his breath comes in short, infrequent gasps. John frowns.

Both paramedics are under the large tree, working on Galen Dennison. One of the medics looks over at the group as they surround Rob, then glances at his companion, Eagan.

"Go," she urges him. "I've got this." He nods quickly, picks up his kit, and straightens up to hurry to John's side, as he bends over the agent's broken body.

Lori watches as John shifts over so he is on one side of Rob and the medic is on the other. Then she looks over at Sherlock. She murmurs something to Maggie, who looks up from Galen's quiet form to the tall figure of the detective. She nods at Lori. The small nurse stands up, and brushes herself off as she stands.

Sherlock stands back a few feet, to give John and the medic the room they need to work. He looks from Rob Enders' pale face with its strained features, to John's bright head, now turned away from him, his attention focused on Mycroft's fallen man.

His head throbs from the opened wound in his scalp. His heart still labors, a little, from the effects of the chemical fire and their efforts in escaping the damn house. He's dizzy. And his wrists and hands ache and sting like the very devil. His throat feels like sandpaper every time he swallows. But he does his best to ignore all of it. He only has eyes for John Watson - and for the man who just saved his love's life. The man who lies, quiet and unmoving, on the soft winter grass a few feet away.

He frowns as he watches John and the medic work on Enders. His insides do a slow tumble and he, nearly, gasps for air as the full realization of what just occurred hits him at last. He knows his heart actually resides in his chest. Obvious. But right now, it feels as if that organ has moved to take up residence in his throat.

Sherlock Holmes stands there in the late afternoon light and tries to swallow past the rock which he understands represents the terror of nearly seeing the man he loves crushed under a half ton of rubble. That fear is still present but receding. And now it's accompanied by a quiet heartache he doesn't quite understand.

Sherlock doesn't know what to do with this influx of unwanted data, these unpleasant emotions. Whatever they are, whatever they represent, they threaten to choke off his air supply. His tall frame shudders.

"Mr Holmes – Sherlock?"

He turns his head to look down at Lori Hansen's concerned face. She hands him a cloth and he frowns at it, as if he doesn't recognize what it is. She sighs, then reaches up on tip toe so she can gently swipe at the blood that drips steadily downward from his now reopened scalp wound.

Oh. He takes the cloth from her, determinedly wipes away as much of the blood as possible. Then he looks at it in his hands for a moment and drops it on the grass. She wonders if he is even aware that his mother stands a few yards away, watching him.

She moves quietly to his side and they both stand there and watch the scene in front of them. Lori's eyes narrow in concentration as she watches John and the medic work over Rob Enders' bloody form.

John quickly rips open Rob's ruined shirt, then gently pulls the cotton, thoroughly soaked through with blood, from the agent's clammy skin. He bares Rob's chest. Then he simply stares. His eyes briefly shut, then reopen. Kneeling over Rob's body, he glances at the medic, whose name tag reads Thomson. He and the other man look at each other. Then John moves aside so the medic has more room to work. He watches quietly, but knows it's pointless.

He looks from the medic's quick sure hands to Rob Enders' face, gone suddenly pale and washed of all color. Rob's skin, usually a smooth coffee with crème tint, is now ashen, nearly gray. John has seen enough battle wounds to last a lifetime. And he's seen enough to easily recognise a mortal wound when he sees one.

He sees one now.

Thomson glances at John and shakes his head. John nods.

"I can make him comfortable," Thomson murmurs. John nods again. "Appreciate whatever you can do," he says quietly.

As Thomson quickly lays out tubing, an IV, a bag of fluid, then fills a hypodermic, he glances at John Watson.

"Doctor?" he asks.

John nods. _Well, he was. And will be again._ It seems a moot point at the moment, though.

He knows it's no good. The horrid open wound in Rob's chest is not that large, but the blood that slowly wells up from it is a deep red. A deep, dark red. Venous. Even as the medic affixes a pressure bandage, then moves to insert the IV into the back of Rob's hand, John watches stoicly.

" _I thought I left this shit back in Afghanistan."_

Then he glances up at Sherlock. And remembers all the times he has had the exact same thought, while sitting vigil next to the detective's hospital bed.

He looks at Sherlock. Sherlock looks back with those incredible eyes. And not for the first time, nor the last, John wonders what truly goes on in that amazing brain.

John Watson knows what he sees when he looks at Sherlock Holmes.

He's never entirely certain what Sherlock Holmes sees when he looks at John Watson.

The medic, Thomson, finishes with the IV and suddenly, Lori is there. She sits back on her heels on the grass and reaches to hold up the bag of solution as Thomson finishes inserting the IV into the back of Rob Enders' hand, then moves to secure it to Rob's cool skin with a bandage. He nods his appreciation at the little nurse and goes back to his grim tasks. Lori looks from Rob Ender's face, s0 familiar to her after only – what? Three days? She's lost count. She glances over at John, who kneels on the grass next to Rob. He shakes his head slightly at her. Lori's eyes widen. But her small hand never wavers as she holds up the bag.

Thomson injects the hypodermic into Rob's elbow, then rubs the injection point slightly with his thumb.

"Right." Thomson rises to his feet, nods once at John, then at Lori. "Be right back." And he turns to run to the ambulance.

Rob Enders' chest heaves once, and he begins to cough. And choke. At John's swift glance, Sherlock hurriedly moves behind the fallen agent, drops down on the grass, and gently lifts Enders' shoulders to support his neck and head so he can breathe more easily. John nods. Normally, he'd be aghast at the detective, or anyone for that matter, touching the wounded man, let alone lifting him. But anything that helps Rob breathe at this point is a good thing.

He nods again at Sherlock to let the detective know he has done a good thing and that he is helping. Sometimes, Sherlock needs assurance of these things. He notes the detective's face is impassive, unmoving. But John sees the quiet pain in Sherlock's eyes. He has no time for it now, though, because Rob Enders has regained consciousness, if only for a moment.

Rob opens his eyes, just a bit, and gasps. The sun is going down in the west and John Watson is momentarily backlit by a golden haze. In his dying brain, Rob sees only the red-gold hue of his lover's hair and his hazel eyes as his Anthony smiles placidly back at him.

"Anthony?" The dying agents' voice is a mere whisper, but it is clearly heard in the quiet afternoon air.

Terry Roaman, who has come up to watch as the medic works on his friend, moves to stand behind John. He places his hand on John's shoulder and bends to speak quietly. "His fiancée," he murmurs. Don Williams stands a few feet behind, and watches it all, unspeaking.

John's eyes close in pain. Then he opens them to look into Rob Enders' unfocused gaze.

"Anth – that you, mate?" Rob's voice is wrecked, a hoarse whisper of what it once was. Lori's eyes fill.

Sherlock's long fingers tighten imperceptibly on Ender's shoulders as he watches the pain flash across John's face. Then it's gone and what remains is the determined gaze of the former Captain of the RAMC. Sherlock frowns, then looks down at Rob Ender's face. His hands remain rock steady, however, as he supports Enders' upper body so he can continue to breathe.

John glances over his shoulder at Roaman. Terry Roaman bends down further. "Robs," he whispers. John nods his thanks.

John looks once at Sherlock, then bends over Rob so the man can see him more easily.

"Yes, Robs, it's me, it's," he hesitates for a second, "it's Tony."

Roaman shakes his head, touches John's sleeve. "Tony is his brother; Anthony is his fiancée," he whispers. John nods his thanks, swallows. He whispers to Rob Enders again.

"It's me, Robs. It's - Anthony."

Rob Enders' nods once, then coughs. And groans. A faint pink froth tips the corner of his mouth and Lori hurriedly moves to wipe it away with the cloth in her free hand. She still holds up the bag of solution. Behind them, Thompson, the medic, rushes back up, his hands full of bandages and fluids. He stops when he sees the tableau in front of him. Sherlock meets his eyes and shakes his head.

Rob gasps and tries again. "Capt'n - Watson? All right?" His voice is ragged.

John glances up at Sherlock as he kneels a foot away from him. He looks at Sherlock and sees how beautiful the man is. Brilliant of brain; damaged of soul, but utterly beautiful, nonetheless. And so beautifully alive. John feels his own heart as it beats in his chest. And he knows it beats in time with the detective's.

Unhesitatingly, John nods at Rob Enders, uncertain what the man can – and cannot – see at this point.

"Yes, Robs. Watson is – just fine."

Rob tries to nod. His hoarse whisper is a torment. "Sorry, mate. Not going – to get…outta ..this one. Sor-ry."

His voice tapers off in a choke and he frowns. He desperately tries to focus on his love's face, but the world has turned filmy at the edges. His fingers convulse, then reach out, and John clasps the agent's shaking hand in his own strong fingers. He bends over Rob Enders.

"I'm here, Robs. And I'm not letting go."

Lori's eyes close in pain. But her hand holds steady on the solution bag.

Rob nods once. "S-aright. It's – Sorry, Anth …. So sorry. Forgiv –" he takes a shuddering breath.

"Give us ... kiss, then, Mate…" his voice begins to trail off. "Anth.. ny." His eyes close as if he is simply too tired to keep them open any longer.

John doesn't even glance up at Sherlock. Doesn't ask permission or seek approval.

John just nods, bends over and softly brushes his lips against Rob Enders'. He kisses the dying man gently, then pulls back slightly, and squeezes the agent's hand in his. The hand that no longer shakes. The hand that now lies, unmoving, in his grasp.

He whispers against the dry lips. "I'm right here, Robs. And I'm not going anywhere."

Rob Enders nods once. "S-good, right?" He takes a deep shuddering breath. "Love. Anth – You. Lov –"

John bends near and nods against Rob Enders' lips, so the dying man can feel the movement. "Me, too, Robs," he says softly. "Me, too."

Rob Enders smiles. And sighs, as if content. He takes one shuddering breath. And lets it out in a quiet huff.

He does not take another.

John studies Rob's now still face, as if memorizing his features, then he sighs and glances up at Sherlock. Sherlock slowly lowers the agent's neck and shoulders back to the ground. His hands shake slightly with the strain of holding up the dying man's form. But he says nothing. He looks over Rob Enders' body straight into John Watson's dark blue gaze.

Regina Holmes stands back away from the group and watches, her grey eyes unreadable.

Lori hears the sound of a car. She turns her head and watches as another long black car drives up and parks. And Mycroft Holmes gets out of the back.

OooOooO

Jake awakens and this time, he feels better. He feels her cool fingers as they grasp his hand and he immediately turns his head. She sleeps. His breath catches and he watches her sleep for a full minute. Finally, he has to shift, and at the slight movement, Anthea/Lizabeth lifts her head and looks into his eyes.

"Better, you?" she asks softly.

He can only nod.

She glances around the hospital room, then frowns and digs her Blackberry out of her purse. Her eyes widen. She stands and begins to brush herself off, to brush the wrinkles out of her clothes.

Something in him begins to panic. She has all the signs of a woman who is about to leave.

A nurse pokes her head in and looks at both of them, then comes on into the room.

Jake glances from the nurse, to Lizabeth, who is hurriedly going through her purse contents, then looking around to see if she has left anything personal behind in the room. She digs out a hairbrush and goes into the small bathroom.

His eyes widen. No. He will not let her go. Not this time. Not without knowing -

The nurse busies herself with the bags of fluid that hang behind him and a sudden thought comes to him.

Jake's mother was and is a classic movie buff. He remembers sitting up with her, late at night, curled against her side, as she watched her films, night after night. She did this to remain awake so she wouldn't miss his Dad's calls from the other side of the world, where he was busily fighting a war. Slowly, the two of them became hooked on the old movies.

One movie scene, in particular, comes to him. Something with - what was his name? Grant, that was it. Grant something or something Grant. Some movie about a goose and World War II. As the nurse passes him, Jake touches her elbow with his free hand. She bends toward him and he whispers his request. She straightens, looks once at him, then nods. She leaves the room and is back in an instant, just before Anthea comes out of the small bath, where she has been brushing her hair.

The nurse hands the small object to Jake, whispers, "Good luck," and leaves them to it. As she leaves the room, she quietly closes the door behind her.

"Lizabeth?" Jake struggles to rise but gasps as pain hits him at the movement. She hurries over to him and adjusts a pillow behind his back.

Lizabeth smoothes the curl away from his eyes. "Be careful, okay?" she tells him. She looks into his suddenly concerned gaze and frowns. "I'm coming back, Jake. I promise." But his eyes look troubled and he fiddles with something in his free hand.

He blurts it out before he can stop himself.

"Lizabeth - Liz. Marry me."

It is not a question.

She looks into his warm eyes. And raises one beautiful eyebrow at the demand. Because demand it is, although spoken in a decidedly quiet voice. She tilts her head and regards the injured agent. She has no intention of _not_ coming back. But she recognises the look of panic on his face. And understands it. After all, he has been under heavy medication. There is a chance that he does not remember everything that has occurred. She can't blame him for that.

But still she wants to tease him. Just a little.

"Where's the ring, Agent Lynn?" She holds one slightly tanned hand in front of his face. "If you expect me to go out there and tell people we are engaged and not have a ring to show for it -"

He grins suddenly at her teasing comments. And brings up the small object in his free hand. He holds it out on his slightly shaking palm. She looks at it, not quite understanding, and moves around his bed to stand by his left side, by his free hand.

He hands the Bandaid to her, still in its small wrapper.

"I can't open it with my left hand," he says. She studies him quizzically,but obliges and tears it from its wrapper, then peels off the small adhesive back.

He takes it gingerly in his fingers, then looks up at her, as she regards him steadily.

"Lizabeth, will you do me the honor of becoming my wife?" he says with determination.

She looks at Jake Lynn, at his earnest gaze, his open face, his chestnut curls, well the one, anyway, and at the pallor under his slight tan. And at the way his hand shakes, slightly, with emotion.

And she nods.

"Yes, Jake. Yes, I will."

And Lizabeth holds out her left hand.

Jake carefully applies the small bandage to the base of her third finger. He smoothes the small buff-colored tape down, then lifts her hand in his free one and plants a kiss on the third knuckle, right over the Bandaid.

She lifts her hand to look at the makeshift engagement ring bound over her ring finger. Then she nods, satisfied, and bends to kiss him.

" _Well, all right then,"_ Jake Lynn thinks. And he mentally blesses his Mum and her love of old classic films.

OooOooO

Don Williams stands slowly, then removes his leather jacket, the same one he loaned to John the day before, and hands it silently to John Watson. John takes it and gently covers Enders' face and chest. He and Terry Roaman stand over the body of their fallen friend and watch as Mycroft Holmes glances around, assesses the situation, then begins to walk toward the group. His steel eyes are fixed on the quiet figure on the ground a few dozen yards in front of him. To say he looks grim is an understatement.

John stands up, and as he stands, Agent Williams puts out a hand to help pull the Army doctor to his feet. The two men stand in front of each other.

"Thanks, Captain Watson," Don says quietly. "That was, well - Thanks." He looks at John, then turns to Terry Roaman. Both agents walk away to intercept and prepare Mycroft Holmes before he has to view the body of yet another dead agent.

John watches them for a few seconds, then he walks around Rob Enders' body and extends a hand to Sherlock. Sherlock looks up at his love, then reaches upward with one bandaged hand and lets his Army doctor pull him to his feet.

Lori Hansen remains kneeling next to Rob's body, her head bowed. She will remain there, sitting vigil, until Mycroft Holmes comes to relieve her of her sad task.

Maggie watches all this with ineffable sadness in her eyes. Then she bends her dark head to look at Galen Dennisons' face. Galen looks at her, his eyes ask the question regarding Agent Enders. She shakes her head slightly and Galen sighs. He closes his eyes.

John stands in front of the man he loves, his hand still holds Sherlock's in his strong fingers.

Sherlock stands in front of John. His dark curls dance in the cool breeze. The sun is heading down in the West, behind Sherlock. John can see where it picks out one shining gray hair. He gazes at it in wonder, then allows his glance to travel down to the miraculous face, the full lips, the crystalline blue eyes, now full of pain. And confusion.

John gently reaches into Sherlock's pocket and pulls out the suspected packet of cigarettes, crumpled from being mashed against the detective's body for so long.

"One left," John thinks. The detective has been hoarding it, obviously. He pulls the one cigarette carefully from the wrinkled packet, holds it up to Sherlock's lips, then reaches back for the lighter.

John takes the lighter, snaps it at the cigarette between Sherlock's lips. Then he drops the lighter in Sherlock's pocket.

"Last one," he breathes into Sherlock's lips. The detective inhales once, and John reaches up to take the cigarette out of Sherlock's lips, waits for him to blow the smoke out, then returns it again. Slowly, Sherlock reaches up with one bandaged wrist to take the cigarette out from between his lips, he takes one more inhale, then drops it on the ground and grinds it under his foot.

"Last one," he says quietly to John.

John wraps his arms around Sherlock's waist, and turns his head where his cheek rests against the detective's heart. He shuts his eyes.

Sherlock slowly puts both arms with their bandaged wrists around John and holds him close. He looks over John's head at Rob Enders' body, covered over with Agent Williams' jacket, where it rests on the ground, a few feet away. He tilts his head toward John and rests his cheek against the top of John Watson's head, his blonde hair gone nearly white-gold in the brilliant afternoon sun. He shuts his eyes.

They remain that way until Mycroft Holmes finishes speaking with his men, then touches Lori Hansen on the shoulder, and nods at the tiny nurse, to relieve her of her silent guard duty.

They remain that way while Lori moves away, and Mycroft kneels in the grass, to slowly uncover Rob Enders' face.

And they remain that way until Mycroft walks up to them, accompanied by Regina Holmes.

OooOooO

* THERE BUT FOR THE GRACE OF JOHN WATSON.

OooOooO


	24. Chapter 24

**These lads, in their current incarnation, belong to the BBC and not to me, and in their original incarnation, to the Estate of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, may his name be Blessed.**

**THE BOYS OF BAKER STREET**

**CH. 24**

**Lori spills the beans; Mycroft takes steps; Sherlock reasserts his authority; and John is soul sick.**

**PROMISES: Angst; Pain; Chemical Interrogation; Mysterious Disappearances – Several; 1980's rock music; Two Knighthoods and COMFORT SEX. - MEN GOING AT IT.**

OooOooO

This book is the sequel to THERE BUT FOR THE GRACE OF JOHN WATSON. 

This ongoing work is a trilogy. GRACE is Book One. BOYS is Book Two. Book Three, Part One, begun elsewhere on the net, will be cross-posted to AO3 shortly, in Nov. 2012.  SHERLOCK and JOHN – REBELLION OF ANGELS, Part one:  ACCLAMATIONS will begin shortly after THE BOYS OF BAKER STREET is posted on AO3. 

OooOooO

**Signpost: Major revelation ahead. Did "sky" cheat? No, she did not, not once. All the clues have been there, since the middle of Chapter 7. Did _you_ put them together? Good on you!**

" **I already told you. But did you listen?" J. Moriarty, _THE REICHENBACH FALL_**

" **Never assume." Felix Unger – _The Odd Couple._**

OooOooO

John opens his eyes, sees Mycroft as he stands there. He pulls back from Sherlock slightly, but does not step away from the younger man. He stands there, next to his love, and he and his soon to be brother-in-law look into each other's eyes. Mycroft nods once. He holds out his hand to John Watson.

John straightens and takes Mycroft Holmes' hand, envelopes the long fingers in his own strong hand.

"John," Mycroft says quietly, his voice deeper than John has heard it before. He tightens his grip on John's sturdy hand, mindful of the scrapes and cuts that mar the slightly tan skin, then releases it, and steps back. He lets his steel eyes roam over his younger brother, sees the blood that has welled up from the reopened wound on the top of the dark curls, the blood that tinges the bandages around the pale wrists, the way Sherlock's form slightly shakes, with pure exhaustion and reaction. His eyes narrow and John realises he is looking at barely disguised fury in Mycroft's glance – fury that his younger brother has been injured; fury that he has lost another good man and yes, fury over what has been done to him, to John.

Sherlock and Mycroft look at each other and Mycroft nods briefly at his brother. Sherlock's eyes widen. Then he sighs - and hugs John to him once more.

Mycroft looks from the two men toward Galen Dennison and Maggie Oakton and the two paramedics who work to move Dennison into a gurney so he can be loaded into the ambulance. He shakes his head slightly, then walks toward Regina Holmes as she comes to stand beside the two doctors and the paramedics.

A second ambulance drives up and Lori, who has quietly moved back to sit under the tree, watches as one of Mycroft's men has a talk with the driver of the second ambulance.

She looks at Rob Ender's body, covered over with the leather jacket, then turns her head away and scrubs at her eyes with one hand. She looks toward the mansion and at the utter ruin of the entryway, the pile of rubble that all but buried Rob Enders when it collapsed on him.

Maggie tightens her grip on Galen's hand, as the paramedics finish their tasks, then bend and raise the psychiatrist between them to slide him onto the lowered gurney. They will not raise it on its supports and snap it into place until they carry the sick man over the lawn to the ambulance.

"Just a moment," he says, his voice clear in the afternoon air. He looks at Maggie. "Maggie, I'm waiting for an answer," he says with grim determination.

Maggie frowns. She worries her lip, glances at the others, then back into Galen's dark brown eyes.

Before she can say a word, a tremendous groaning sound fills the afternoon air, nothing less than the bone-deep complaint of a monster skeleton as it snaps and finally breaks down. All eyes (except Galen's) turn toward the mansion and watch as the west tower tilts and caves in on itself in slow motion. There is a thundering crash and a mushroom cloud of dust and building mortar huffs into the air above the ruined house.

Maggie gasps in quiet horror. She looks from the utter ruin to Regina and Mycroft Holmes, who stand together, staring at the house.

"Mrs. Holmes – your beautiful home. I – I don't know what to say. Your family home." Maggie's voice is filled with anguish.

Regina looks at Mycroft, who looks steadily back at his mother. He shrugs, nearly imperceptibly, and Regina purses her lips. She turns toward Maggie Oakton.

Maggie looks from one to the other, notes the similarities - and the differences. " _Her eyes are Sherlock's eyes—but her mannerisms are definitely Mycroft's."_

Regina begins to speak, but before she can get out a word –

"But that's _not_ the Holmes mansion," says a quiet voice behind them all.

Regina turns her head to look at Lori Hansen where she sits under the tree, her legs drawn up beneath her, her hands in her lap.

Lori looks from Regina's steady gaze to Maggie's startled glance and back again.

Regina regards the young nurse.

"You knew?" she asks quietly. Beside her, Mycroft says nothing.

Maggie looks from Regina toward Lori and back again, her emerald eyes huge in her pale face.

"What?"

Lori looks from her a few yards away to John and Sherlock, still wrapped up in each other. She smiles softly. Then faces the Holmes matron face on. And answers her question.

"I didn't know, not at first, not the first night. Or even the next day. It was too dark and late when we got here, and then everything happened so fast." Lori bites her lip, glances over at Mycroft's expression, which can best be described as guarded.

"I'm – sorry – if I wasn't supposed to say anything," she says hesitantly.

Regina brushes a slim hand over her trousers, then looks the little nurse over appraisingly.

She seems, nearly, amused. "What gave it away?"

Lori sighs, relieved. "As I said, I wasn't certain, not at first. But last night, after Doctor – after John and Sherlock went to hospital, it was so quiet. I was bored. So I took the first opportunity I had to just walk around the house. And then, I was pretty sure. And of course, you've just confirmed it. Photographs."

Maggie's eyes, now as wide as saucers, look from the diminutive nurse to Regina Holmes, and then back again. "What? I mean – just, what?"

Regina nods. "Photographs. Or rather, the lack thereof, I suspect."

Lori nods. She looks across their heads at the mansion, and at the ruined west tower.

"Among other things. I mean, it just didn't make sense. Both your sons grew up here," she glances over at Sherlock again. "Both of them, little boys, utterly extraordinary little boys, running all over the estate, I imagine, climbing trees, riding ponies, getting up to all the things little boys get up to. And particularly, knowing Mr. Holmes –" she takes a deep breath, "knowing Sherlock, er, slightly. Well, not only wasn't there a single photograph, not one, but no other – oh, I don't know. What do little boys collect? Butterflies? Insects? Rocks? There was nothing. No collections, no childhood books proudly displayed on shelves. No – _little boy_ memorabilia. I couldn't find a nursery. No toys lovingly preserved. But particularly, no family photographs, not a one."

She regards the Holmes matron evenly.

Regina now looks highly amused. "I suspected it might be – an error – not to put out any photos, but everything occurred so quickly."

Maggie's next comment comes out in a gasp. Her hands inadvertently tighten on Galen's right wrist, which she has clung to and not once let go. "You mean – the entire time we've been here, we haven't been living in – I mean," she looks around at everyone, Regina, Lori, then over at Mycroft. Her eyes narrow. "Mycroft – !"

He sighs. "Apologies, Margaret. I assure you, up to the last hour, we had every intention of housing all of you in our family manor."

He looks at his mother and both of them nod at each other. It's a tiny, nearly imperceptible movement, but both women catch it.

"Actually, Mummy and Anthea –"

"It was that clever assistant of Mycroft's," Regina says quietly. "We already had the Crandall mansion _leased,_ if you will, for the summer months. When the attack occurred on the convoy that was acting as decoy, so both Sherlock and John could –"

"Mummy," Mycroft says quietly.

She stops speaking and looks at her eldest son.

Mycroft clears his throat. "Without going into too much detail, the family had arranged to lease the Crandall mansion," he sweeps his hand at the now ruined manor, "This mansion, for the months of summer. I believe it was Mummy's intention to quarter our, shall we say, overflow guests from the annual Holmes Gala here, as last year we had a most frightful cock-up. Too many guests. Not enough room."

"Let me, Mycroft."

Regina regards Maggie Oakton carefully, then looks down at Galen. The psychiatrist opens his brown eyes in surprise and stares upward.

"And in addition to the annual Gala, we are expecting guests for the biggest event this tired burg has yet seen."

Lori says quietly. "You mean the Queen's Diamond Jubilee or the Summer Olympics?"

Regina sniffs. "Certainly not. I refer, of course, to the marriage of my son, Sherlock, to Captain John Watson, of course."

It is at this moment that Lori Hansen falls quietly in love with Regina Holmes. Any woman, any mother, who puts the marriage of her son over the Queens' Diamond Jubilee is all right in her book.

Galen Dennison finds Maggie's green eyes and frowns. The paramedic, Eagan, looks at him carefully. Then shakes her head. "Doctor Dennison, we are ready to take you to hospital now. As soon as we can get the ambulance out. If you will please remain calm and –"

"Not the Holmes mansion?" he whispers.

"I thought we'd covered that," John says. He walks up to them, his arm around Sherlock's waist.

Don Williams comes up to the group under the tree. He has one of the wooden ammo boxes with him, the empty one. He sits it down under the tree, then glances at John and turns to walk back to Rob Enders' body. The medic from the second ambulance has covered it with a sheet. His partner brings up a gurney. Everyone looks away, except for Mycroft.

And John.

Lori jumps up to move the box over so Sherlock can sit. He begins to shake his head but both Lori and John push down on a shoulder and he sighs and sits. John stands directly in front of Sherlock, to block his view of what is happening to Rob Enders' body. The Army Captain brushes the damp curls carefully away from Sherlock's pale face. Then he just stands there, his strong hands on the detective's shoulders.

"When I woke up after my attack in the car that night – the night that your car was attacked, Lori, the night that Sally – " he breaks off. "When I woke up in the room we've shared for the past two weeks, Sherlock had to explain it to me. He'd already had the conversation with the two agents driving with us. And Mycroft, of course, had communicated events to the others. And then I had two hours or less, to learn the layout of the entire mansion. I had to appear as if I'd been here before, many times."

Lori says excitedly. "I saw you with that diagram of the mansion and the surrounding grounds. It was wrinkled and had clearly been folded and refolded several times. You were going over it yesterday, the day you rescued Mrs. Holmes and Sherlock, and I wondered why –"

"Why a former soldier, trained in reconnaissance and _other techniques_ would need to familiarize himself with his intended's family home?" John finishes quietly.

Lori nods. "That, and no photographs, nothing personal at all, and I mean nothing. Not a magazine - "

Regina snorts and Mycroft looks at the little nurse.

"- Nothing at all that said _family_. I mean, it was just a house. A very large, beautiful house, but cold. Empty. And I know you can't raise children and not have _something_ , some memorabilia around. But there's just nothing. Not a blessed thing that said a family lived here or had ever lived here. It's been rather like staying in a hotel – a very grand hotel," she says wistfully, "but impersonal."

Lori breaks off and watches as Rob Ender's body is lifted onto a gurney and taken toward the second ambulance.

Lori looks into Regina Holmes eyes. Regina Holmes looks back at Lori Hansen appreciatively and then it happens. She smiles directly at the little nurse. Lori catches her breath. That smile is Sherlock's smile and her eyes are Sherlock's eyes – quicksilver, beautiful, otherworldly.

Sherlock shifts his position suddenly. He groans at the slight movement and John hushes him.

Regina looks from Lori to the ruined mansion. "Gianetta is going to be _upset,_ to say the least. She'll have to be contacted immediately, that is, if she can manage to tear herself away from that younger male _toy_ she's been dragging all over the continent."

"Mummy," Mycroft says softly. She huffs.

Sherlock speaks for the first time. He says tiredly, "I don't know, mother. You've been trying to get her to sell it to the family for the past five years."

Lori thinks for a moment. "The bombs, you said they were planted by the cleaning crew, by that woman who tried to run John over. How did she _not_ know he was here earlier?"

John speaks up. " I was quite – ill – to say the least and either asleep or taking walks when the crew was here. I always timed my walks to avoid them, to avoid as many people as possible. I am, supposedly, dead. We didn't want any complications until we were ready to bring Doctor John Watson back to life."

"Your morning walks –" Lori breaks off.

"Yes. The crews' only been here four times since we've been here. They don't come daily, we've more or less been fending for ourselves. The ones who were here the most were the food service and the laundry services. And they were always met at the back door by the men. But the cleaning crew was a different matter. They would necessarily have to be all over the house. So I got in the habit of taking early morning and late afternoon walks, since they were scheduled for either the morning or the afternoon shift. I returned once I knew the crew was gone. Sherlock, of course, was always down in the lab."

"But if she never saw John or Sherlock – "

"Exactly. As far as Cynthia McReedy knew, she _was_ cleaning the Holmes mansion, but doing it for our mother's sake. Apparently, it was not until this morning – can it be just this morning – that she saw John on his motorcycle and realized she had been cleaning the very house in which John Watson, a supposedly _dead_ John Watson, and Sherlock Holmes had been staying. That's when she tried to run down John."

Maggie, still at sea, sits there and opens and closes her mouth. Finally, she stops imitating a fish and speaks up.

"Now wait just a minute. We have been living in your – neighbor's home? This entire time?"

Regina's voice is grim. "I regret the necessity for the deception, Doctor Oakton. But when the attack occurred that night, well my oldest son and that remarkable assistant of his felt that it would be safer and for the best to house all of you, at least temporarily, in our neighbor's home. It was technically ours for the summer, after all."

"That was another thing," Lori says, her voice a tad bit louder now, as she gathers her courage. "Mr. Holmes – Sherlock - never talked about his house. His home. He didn't even seem to care that he was _in_ his home. He never mentioned having his own wing. I know he had his own; Mycroft said he did. And John never brought it up. No one ever mentioned him growing up here or playing here or – or anything. And all of us were housed in the one wing. No mention was ever made of any other part of the house."

"Damp," Mycroft says tiredly. "The place is in utter disrepair and Gianetta has just finally had the kitchen and the one wing renovated. And her precious library, of course,"

There's a loud creaking sound and the remaining bit of the entryway caves in.

Regina looks at the ruined mansion and shakes her head. "Well, at least the monstrosity is gone now."

Maggie startles. "Monstrosity!"

Regina considers the wreck of a house. "Yes. It's bad enough that it's so small – was so small - and out here where there are so many fine mansions but honestly, wall to wall ? In the bedrooms?"

Mycroft looks at his mother. "Gianetta is not exactly known for her taste, Mother."

Maggie looks down into Galen's' brown gaze. "Did you know?" she asks quietly.

He tries to shake his head. But settles for a quiet, "No. But I did wonder why we were all rather jumbled together. And why Sherlock and John had the use of what was obviously a rather feminine bedroom and why they didn't have more – room - available to the two of them. That green silk wallpaper and all that. And the furnishings, not to mention –" he breaks off suddenly. The medic, Eagan, checks his portable heart monitor, then nods to herself, satisfied.

Maggie brushes Galen's' hair away from his eyes. She looks from Galen's sweat-damp face up at Regina Holmes.

"Well, I am so very glad your home wasn't destroyed. But bloody hell," Galen startles at this and Lori smiles. "Bloody hell, Mrs. Holmes – how are you going to explain this—"

"Call me Regina, please."

Mycroft nods. "I suspect that our offer to purchase the entire estate will finally be met with approval. Particularly, if Mummy persists in offering an amount so far above the fair market value."

"Don't be ridiculous, son. The offer stands but at a much lower rate." She glances up. "The house is falling down, after all."

Under any other circumstances, Lori would laugh at this statement.

Maggie watches as the second paramedic attempts to back the ambulance out of the frankly crowded space it is in. It's hemmed in by several other vehicles and one of Mycroft's men begins to shout at the driver of what seems to be a car full of media personnel. Meanwhile, the fire engine is being moved back up onto the winter lawn.

The first paramedic, Eagan, tucks a blanket around Galen's body, her strong fingers wrapped around his wrist right at his pulse point. She watches her partner as he begins to back the ambulance around so they can more easily maneuver the gurney into it.

"But, the men. The men who shot Agent Lynn," Maggie turns to Mycroft and frowns. "Surely they'd know which house to target?"

"Actually," John says tiredly, "they didn't know. Not at first."

John turns to Maggie and Lori. Galen listens quietly, his eyes shut.

"My men – Mycroft's men found evidence that they originally set up in the woods outside the Holmes estate. The ground is covered with their tracks. But all they had to do was sit there for an hour or two, at the most a half day, and observe that no one went in or out. One of them, we'll never know which one, simply stayed in the woods and walked a mile over. "

He glances at Sherlock, then back up.

"They would have seen activity immediately. Agents coming and going. The post was brought in daily. And the food delivery service, and the cleaning crew. Since there are only two homes along this entire road, they would have naturally assumed they had staked out the wrong house. Which they did. And they simply moved shop, as it were."

"The cleaning crew," says Lori excitedly. Her eyes shine and she is temporarily caught up in this fascinating mystery, temporarily has forgotten Rob Enders. "How did—"

"Child's play," Mycroft says. He straightens up and John realizes he has never seen his future brother in law so tired, so utterly exhausted. _After all, he has lost – how many of his people now_? John winces.

"Utter child's play," Mycroft says again.

"The McReedy female," Sherlock says quietly. Mycroft looks at his brother's bent head and purses his lips.

He looks into Lori's brown eyes. "Cynthia McReedy is the sister of one of my employees. Unfortunately, he was shot the day that John was kidnapped. Both our mother and a family acquaintance, sponsored her for a position with the cleaning company. To help her out, financially, more than anything."

Mycroft watches the altercation between his man and the film crew with interest.

"Thea Brown recommended the company to Mummy, who simply needed a reliable crew to come in and "do" for all of you, until we could get this all sorted out. We honestly felt the Holmes mansion might have been targeted and felt you would be safer here until we could get our bearings. We'd already given our own family servants leave. Mummy agreed to use this cleaning crew, more as an "olive branch" as it were, between the Holmes family and Thea Brown, who used to be a good family friend. That is, before her son was lost in action in Iraq. After that unfortunate happening, she went round the twist. Her behavior became erratic."

"Woman should be sectioned," Regina says with authority. "Honestly, Mycroft, that episode she had two years ago, they should never have released her."

Mycroft says, "I agree."

He regards the small nurse. "The individual in question is part of a _cabal_ that has targeted the British government. The fact that she has had a long standing disregard for the Holmes family merely added fuel to the flames."

He watches grimly as one of his men climbs in the back of the second ambulance with Rob Enders' body to act as bodyguard. The ambulance makes a laborious turn around the yard and heads down the long driveway toward the main road.

"When Mummy agreed to use the services of the crew, thus giving Cynthia McReedy total access, well, Thea Brown took the girl in hand. And fed Ms. McReedy's own belief that it was my fault her brother was injured so badly. She provided her with the explosive devices –"

"Yes," Maggie says quietly. "Where did a young girl, a member of a cleaning crew, get all those bombs? Don't tell me she made them herself?"

He looks up at the crumbling mansion. "Another member of the cabal, a person we have in custody, actually made the bombs. He served in the Middle East, and is very familiar with such devices. Although, I believe the internet even explains how to make a basic IED – or any small bomb for that matter. Apparently, she's been planting these devices all over the ground floor, every chance she could get, the last two weeks she has worked here."

He does not mention Miles Jackson by name. But his eyes narrow as he thinks of the man who also planted the bomb in Anthea's car.

Galen speaks up. "But why were none of them found?"

Mycroft regards the sick man on the gurney in front of him. "Easy enough to hide a small device amongst the rock wall of the garden, behind the linens, in the back of a pantry, in with the cleaning supplies kept stored away, under a bed or - overhead in a chandelier. No one was looking for them. We thought our home would be targeted, if at all. We never suspected this house would be. We felt everyone would be safe here. Until the attack on agent Lynn showed us otherwise. An error of mine, I am afraid."

Lori looks at Mycroft steadily, then asks. "But the men, the snipers. Wouldn't they have the correct address? Wouldn't they know where your home is?"

Mycroft sighs. "The Holmes mansion is less than a mile in that direction. We let out that the family of that home is away in Europe and thus, no one is at home. And once they followed even one of the delivery vans down this road, it would be obvious that this is the house that the cleaning crew, the food delivery, hell everyone was coming to."

Mycroft sighs. This is the second time he's made this point and like his younger brother, he hates repeating himself.

He glances at John and at his brother. "But it was even simpler than that. The leader of the little band of snipers was being fed information by the very individual who is the head of this cabal. He, in turn, relied on the information of various members of the group in order to conduct his campaign here. And one of those individuals is Thea Brown, the woman who sponsored Cynthia McReedy for the position she held.

He glances at the fallen mansion. "And when she told Ms. McReedy to plant the devices "in the Holmes mansion," that is exactly what Ms. McReedy did. She planted them in the house she was hired to clean, hired by Regina Holmes. She made the assumption, as did all the other services we utilized, that this is the Holmes family mansion."

He turns to look at the ruined house then turns back to Lori. "I hope that explains it."

The entryway table," Sherlock says tiredly. For the first time, he opens his crystalline eyes to look into John's quiet gaze, then turns his head slowly to regard his brother. "I thought my watch or Ms. Hansen's' needed new batteries. Yesterday. I must have heard the slight buzz of the timer."

Mycroft nods. "I do wish we'd found it yesterday. How many explosions were counted?

Lori looks at him. "A dozen."

He nods. "One dozen exactly. Yes. That ties in with Cynthia McReedy's 'testimony.' And it would account for Thea's rather warped sense of the fitness of things. It has been 12 years, after all, that she has conducted this ridiculous feud with my mother. But –"

"Oh 'but' me no more buts," Regina stands up, then regards Lori and nods once. She extends a hand to the tiny nurse. Lori puts her small hand in Regina's and lets the Holmes matron help pull her to her feet.

"Ms. Hansen, I am extremely impressed by your behavior, your courage and grace under fire." She looks at Mycroft. "Son, surely a position in your organization?"

Mycroft purses his lips and regards Hansen. "I'll think about it."

Maggie looks from all of them to Mycroft. He just looks back at her impassively.

"But – the food delivery people. The post."

"The food delivery service was never asked to deliver to the Holmes mansion. They were simply given this address. And as for the post, my men collected it from Baker Street and also from the post office itself, and brought it here daily."

He looks at Sherlock, whose eyes remain closed during all this and at John's steady hands as they grip his brother's thin shoulders.

Mycroft looks grimly at his mother. "My mistake was in not placing our home under total surveillance the entire time. If I had done so, we would have found them sooner, perhaps. My apologies, Mummy."

Maggie shakes her head. "And you know all of this because?"

"Please, Margaret, we have had the three snipers in custody since yesterday. And two of them have already been put through the process, as we call it. " Mycroft regards her steadily. "You, of all people, are cognizant of the utter impossibility of keeping anything secret under those circumstances."

Maggie says tiredly, "Well, if you have any further questions for them regarding what they tried to do, at least you have them in custody now."

Dead silence. Mycroft is silent. Sherlock and John say nothing.

Maggie looks from one of them to the other. "Oh. Oh."

Mycroft nods. "I am very much afraid the – perpetrators – have 'gone missing.'"

"Seems to be a lot of that going around lately," Regina says with a decided lack of feeling.

"Doctor Galen, we're ready now." Eagan, the head paramedic, nods at her partner who has finally managed to maneuver the first ambulance around all of the trucks and cars that have taken up space in the long driveway. The fire truck has backed away and is actually now parked on the winter grass.

Galen turns his head toward the woman he loves. Of all the mysteries he has heard today, he only wants to hear the resolution to the one that is most important to his heart.

"Maggie –"

The second medic, Thomson, comes hurrying up. "Ambulance is in place now. Bloody hell, but there's cars all over the darned place. I had to back it up twice just to get it right."

He glances at Galen. "Doctor Dennison? You're stable enough to transport now."

Galen shakes his head slightly. He opens his eyes and turns his head.

"Maggie Oakton, I'm still waiting. Marry me – or I'm not going anywhere in that damn ambulance."

Maggie smiles at him. She brushes her fingers through his dark hair, damp with sweat.

"Oh for heaven's sakes, Dr. Oakton, say 'Yes' to the man." Regina Holmes moves back to stand over them both. "Doctor Oakton – Dr. Margaret Oakton, correct? I read your latest paper on cognitive behavioral therapy versus psychodynamic treatment. I was impressed."

Regina looks at Maggie Oakton's frankly amazed face, then smiles gently.

"Dr. Oakton, think of the children." Regina glances from the quiet psychiatrist on the gurney, back to Maggie Oakton's emerald green eyes. "With Dr. Margaret Oakton, psychologist, as a mother and Doctor Galen Dennison, psychiatrist, as a father, your children are almost guaranteed to be not only level-headed, but probably the best adjusted offspring one could possibly desire."

Regina breaks off as she studies both Mycroft and Sherlock. Maggie's deep green eyes widen and Galen blushes furiously.

At his mother's words, Sherlock laughs. It's a small laugh but it's a laugh and John looks at him. His eyes are unreadable as he regards the little group.

Regina just nods thoughtfully. "Yes, I would say this is a most excellent match." She looks from Galen to Maggie. "I do hope that you intend to be sensible and accept Dr. Dennison's' proposal."

Maggie looks at all of them, from John and Sherlock to Mycroft and Regina, and Lori's smiling eyes. Then to Galen's hopeful expression.

"Looks like I'm outnumbered here," she says. She bends over and brushes her lips across Galen Dennison's forehead. She pulls back. "Yes, Galen. Yes, I will marry you. But let's get you to hospital first, okay?"

Lori nods. "Damn straight," she says.

Maggie squeezes Galen's hands. She looks at the mansion that has been her home away from home for nearly two weeks.

"The Summer Olympics, I'd nearly forgotten them."

She looks down at Galen. "Galen, the crowds are going to be horrendous. The sooner we get you to hospital, the sooner we can get you out of hospital."

He finishes for her. "And the sooner we can plan our own wedding, the sooner we can –"

"Get the bloody hell out of Dodge," Maggie says determinedly.

Lori grins at both of them.

The two paramedics carefully lift the gurney and carry Galen toward the ambulance. Once there, they set it down, extend the legs and begin to slide him into the back. Watching this, Maggie makes as if to follow, then stops suddenly and turns toward Mycroft.

"How unforgiveable of me," she says quietly. Her hand goes into a pocket of her trousers. She holds her hand out to Mycroft. On her outstretched palm is a small vial of liquid.

Mycroft takes the vial from her, regards it silently. She nods . "Yes, it was actually under me, when I was trapped under the dining table. I imagine it's the only vial that escaped the force of the blast. Agent Enders had the case in his hand when the explosion occurred."

She glances at Sherlock and John, then raises her voice slightly. "While we've been sitting here, I've already transmitted the formula for John's injections to the pharmacy at St. Anne's. This one should be perfectly good to use this evening. And I believe St. Anne's delivers?"

John lifts his head and looks straight at her. Then he murmurs something to the detective, who nods. John smiles grimly at the psychologist and she frowns at his haunted glance.

Sherlock comes to his feet and walks to stand next to Mycroft. He speaks quietly with his brother for a few seconds, then Mycroft nods. "Doctor Oakton, a word."

He looks at Maggie. John remains where he is, but he watches the two men as they confront the psychologist.

Mycroft extends a hand to her. "Doctor Oakton, I believe my brother and my men, as well, wish to thank you for your foresight. And your medical expertise. I do believe you 'saved the day' as the saying goes."

Regina nods at them all. "I totally agree," she says.

Maggie, totally at sea, looks from Mycroft to Sherlock. "What?"

Sherlock says. "Doctor Oakton, surely you remember your words to John during your session with him, when you put him under - what you instructed him to do."

She looks at him. "I believe so."

Sherlock nods. He regards her as he quotes from that remarkable memory. "You told him to 'take whatever actions he personally felt he needed to take, if any, in order to be happy, healthy and at peace with himself …to make any corrections he needed to make in order to ensure his mental and emotional health, to be happy, to be himself – and then to come back to us.' "

Sherlock, Mycroft and Maggie all look at John Watson, whose white-blond hair glows in the afternoon sun. Sherlock's eyes soften, but his glance is tinged with sadness.

He turns back to Maggie. "I would say that John followed your instructions to the letter. He came back as exactly the _John Watson_ we all needed at this particular time. He came back as—"

Maggie says softly, so softly only Sherlock and Mycroft can hear her clearly. "He came back as Captain John Watson, of the RAMC, and he—"

"Took charge," Mycroft says. He shakes Maggie's hand. Regina comes over and gives the psychologist a brief hug.

"I believe your future husband is waiting for you," she says. Maggie's eyes widen and fill. She looks from the two men to the Holmes matron, then over to John Watson. She turns to hurry toward the ambulance, then pauses. She looks at Sherlock.

"Sherlock – watch him. Please." At his look, she shakes her dark head. "I know you will anyway, but he needs to continue his sessions with me and later with Galen. Although the actual memory sticks which contain John's sessions with the both of us were destroyed, both Galen and I previously copied them to our respective emails and we have not lost any of them. There are several recordings that we both feel you should listen to and soon. Now that the immediate danger is over, just watch John. It is entirely normal, under these circumstances, for someone oriented to action and danger, to lose himself as it were, to be unable to cope with the realities of everyday life. At least for a while."

Sherlock frowns at her words. But says nothing. He just nods.

She grimaces, as she realises she has slipped into what Galen would call her _'full Margaret_ _Oakton psychologist'_ mode.

Galen!

"Heavens!" She rushes toward the ambulance and the two Holmes brothers and their mother watch as she takes the medic's hand and climbs into the back to be with Galen Dennison. The doors shut and the ambulance finally is able to pull away from the long line of vehicles, shortened now by two ambulances.

Mycroft watches as one of his relief agents doubles up his fist and hits one of the media people in the nose. The reporter goes down, cursing.

Mycroft shakes his head. He turns and walks the few feet back to where Lori Hansen stands, and watches all of this with a bemused expression on her face.

"Ms. Hansen." He extends his hand to the tiny nurse. She takes his large hand in her small firm one. "Thank you. For everything."

He looks toward the tangled web of agents and media that is putting on quite a show at this time to the side of the road. His brows come together. But he seems loathe to stop his men from beating up the media.

A sudden ripping, tearing sound breaks the afternoon air and everyone once again looks toward the house as yet another section caves in on itself.

Regina says grimly. "Son, are you going to contact Gianetta or shall I? Or should I ask that remarkable assistant of yours –"

"Anthea," Mycroft says.

"Humph. Ridiculous pseudonym. I much prefer Lizabeth. And I'm certain that Agent Lynn will too.'

Mycroft frowns. "Agent Lynn?"

Regina stares at her oldest son as if he doesn't have a brain in his head.

"Oh, do keep up with your own people, son. I stopped by St. Bartholomew's early this morning before I went to pick up Jenkins. I wanted to see how she was getting on. I found her sitting by your man's bedside. And from their rather obvious body language, well –" Regina looks into Mycroft's steel eyes. "It was blatant I had interrupted a, let us say, tableau? You might have to rethink things there a bit, son."

Mycroft scrubs at his face with one hand. "Mother!"

"Oh for heaven's sakes, Mycroft, as if it matters, she says dryly. "One of us needs to contact Gianetta as soon as possible."

"Gianetta is not known for her quick decision-making processes either, Mummy," Mycroft says.

Regina is having none of it. "Well, now she can be known for having the most derelict mansion in the countryside. She'd bloody well better sell it to us. The sooner she does so, the sooner she can make her permanent escape to Italy with that frankly too young man she is cohabitating with and the sooner I can go about having the rest of this – monstrosity - torn down and expand the stables and riding."

Mycroft looks at his mother in exasperation

"Mummy, I thought we'd been over all that. Sherlock and John –"

She sighs, clearly aggrieved. "Oh, very well, Mycroft."

Regina addresses her comments to John and her son, who sits silently, his head bowed in exhaustion. And pain.

"Sherlock? John,? How would the two of you feel about a nice Tudor, built directly on these grounds? We should be able to have it up and complete within oh, 18 months at the very least, if I really push the construction crew. And of course, in the meantime—"

Sherlock startles and lifts his head. "Good God!"

He glances up, grabs John's collar and pulls his love down to him, in order to plant a firm kiss on his Army doctor's lips.

Then he looks at his mother and Mycroft. "Actually, John and I have other plans."

His hoarse voice breaks off and he looks into John Watson's ocean-deep eyes.

"Baker Street, John."

John's eyes widen, in panic, Lori thinks, since Mrs. Holmes' announcement.

He nods emphatically. "Baker Street, the sooner, the better!"

Lori laughs.

John holds out his mobile. "Here, Mycroft. Little souvenir. It actually works, some of the time." Mycroft holds his hand out and takes the mobile phone, then frowns at it.

John nods. "Just don't try to text any consulting detectives on it." And he looks straight into Mycroft Holmes' steel eyes.

Mycroft winces. "All right, John, make that another small error in judgment I have made."

"Actually, Mycroft, you utter sod –" Sherlock raises his voice.

"Shut it, Sherlock!"

"Boys," Regina says quietly.

Lori just smiles.

OooOooO

Sherlock, John, Mycroft, Regina and Lori watch as Mycroft's men finally get the long driveway cleared of all extraneous vehicles excepting the fire engine, and the cars belonging to Mycroft's men. And the long black car that Regina arrived in . Lori can just see Mr. Jenkins white fluffy hair where he apparently naps in the back seat.

She wonders how long the fire truck will remain. She thinks of Sherlock trapped in the burning lab and she frowns. And then one more car pulls up. A panda car. And her eyes widen as Joe Rodriguez and his partner, Officer Cates, rushes toward her.

"I'm in for it now," she breathes to no one in particular.

Joe rushes up with a face like thunder but before she can even open her mouth, he grabs her in a tight embrace and literally lifts the tiny nurse off her feet and twirls her around.

He sets her back on her feet, looks her up and down and nods. "You're okay. You look okay. Are you okay? Bloody hell, Lori Hansen, don't you ever do that to me again!"

Before Lori can speak, Terry Roaman comes up to the group. He carries a small cardboard box. "Ms. Hansen?"

Lori looks at Agent Roaman, her eyes wide. She has not noticed him since he stood beside Rob Enders' body. She nods slowly.

He holds the small box out to her and smiles. "I believe in your haste, you forgot this item."

Lori hesitatingly takes the box from the agents' hands. The box shakes once and she gasps, then laughs. A small golden head peeks up. She looks at Joe. "Joe, we have a new houseguest."

He looks from the kitten to his fiancée. "Yes, I can see that." He takes the box from her hands, glances around at everyone and nods once. "I'd better get you home."

His partner follows them to the car. Lori hesitates for a moment, whispers something to Joe and he just nods and takes the box from her. He and Cates continue toward the panda car.

Mycroft has had more than enough emotion for one afternoon. As he walks by Lori, he says, "I'll be in touch, Ms. Hansen." He tosses this over his shoulder as he walks away.

Lori looks at Sherlock, who stands once again close to John.

She glances up at him. "Not the Holmes mansion. I was right."

Sherlock repeats quietly. "Not the Holmes mansion."

"And you made this switch – when?"

John looks at her fondly. "That night, literally when we were on the road."

Lori thinks for a moment, then her brown furrows. "But your – I mean Mycroft's men. Everyone had keys, there was no trouble or hesitation in getting into your neighbor's house."

John just looks steadily at her.

The light dawns. She nods. "Of course. Mycroft Holmes. Of course, if it was rented for the summer—"

Sherlock stirs finally. "We prefer lease—"

Lori goes on as if he hasn't interrupted her. "If it were leased for the summer, then Mycroft would definitely have keys to the house and –"

"Actually, it's simpler than that," John says.

He looks toward Mycroft's receding back.

The nurse nods in total understanding. "He's Mycroft Holmes."

She looks at John and grins.

"He's Mycroft. Of course, his people would be able to get into their neighbor's house, if need be. Just in case."

"Just in case," Sherlock says quietly. He lifts his head to look into John's dark blue eyes.

And all of them raise their eyes to follow Mycroft's tall figure as he walks away with Regina Holmes.

OooOooO

"Ms. Thea? There appears to be a police individual at the door."

Thea frowns. "Tell them to go away, Carter. I'm rather occupied at the moment."

Her maid sighs. "Actually, Mum, he's being rather insistent." She steps aside quickly as a man comes up behind her. He regards Thea Brown curiously.

"Detective Inspector Dimmock, Ma'am." He flashes his card. "Ms. Brown? I need to ask you a few questions, please."

Carter sighs and goes back to her baking.

OooOooO

John and Sherlock wait until most of the cars have left the scene. Regina has a word with Mycroft, then glances at her son and John. She makes her way to the black car, wakes Mr. Jenkins carefully and slides in the seat beside him. Then she is gone.

Mycroft watches his mother's car drive away, turns toward John.

"John, I have no doubt that both of you urgently require a trip to hospital. You should have gone in one of the ambulances."

"We'll drive ourselves," Sherlock says determinedly. John says nothing.

Mycroft looks at both men, then regards the long driveway. There are a few cars left – and one brilliant yellow motorcycle, which sits off by the side. "All right, brother. See that you do get yourself to hospital. If not for yourself, then for the sake of John's much abused ribs."

He walks off to have a word with his men. Sherlock and John watch him. After a few more minutes, Mycroft gets into his own car and one of his men gets in the driver's seat.

Terry Roaman and Don Williams come over to the detective and his doctor. What they have to say to each other at this time remains forever private. John speaks with the two agents for a few minutes. Sherlock notes his doctor's solemn mood.

Agent Roaman drops a key in John's hands to the Range Rover. "Might as well take it, Sir. Leave it wherever. Text one of us and we'll come get it." Then with a firm nod in Sherlock's direction, and a "Captain Watson, Sir," both he and Don Williams get in one of the SUV's and follow Mycroft's car down the long drive.

Sherlock and John look at the ruined mansion a last time, then at each other. They walk to the Rover and John slides into the driver's seat. Sherlock gets in beside him. As John pulls away, the detective is already texting.

Without a backward glance, they drive away.

Presumably, the yellow Harley is just fine by itself, there in the brilliant late afternoon sun.

OooOooO

"Mycroft! Bloody hell, leave it to the Holmes brothers! I have just come from a three- hour meeting with the Commissioner. A sodding Apache helicopter, over the English countryside? Shots fired at a country estate? Snipers in the woods? And what in bloody hell is this I hear about a mansion being blown to shit and back. I'll be lucky to come out of this with my badge, let alone my pension."

"Actually, Detective Inspector, I believe this just may be your finest hour. Shall we meet for a drink? At my club, of course."

Dead silence.

"Hell, Mycroft Holmes, do I sound as if I want to meet at your club for a bloody drink?"

More Silence.

"Apologies, Detective Inspector. Another time perhaps."

"Yes, another time."

Greg Lestrade slams the phone down. "Don't count on it," he says with determination.

OooOooO

John watches closely while the physician assesses Sherlock's head wound, cleans it, then re-stitches the wound closed. The detective's wrists are disinfected and re-bandaged, his ankles are looked at and re-bandaged, his throat is examined and "tut tutted" over, a soothing throat spray prescribed, and yet more pain killers administered by injection.

John groans inwardly. Another sleepless night.

On the other hand, neither one of them will probably sleep anyway, given the day's events – and those of the past few days…"make that the past two months," John thinks, as the doctor finishes with Sherlock, admonishing him to "get some rest, Mr. Holmes, and by the good God in heaven, please cease and desist with whatever activities you engaged in that managed to wreck your voice and re-open that head wound!"

Sherlock nods. He says nothing. But then, he has been preternaturally quiet the entire trip to hospital and John notes it.

Then it is John's turn. An X-ray reveals the abused rib is not broken and no cracks are seen, although the technician muses that hairline cracks might not show up. John is badly bruised, right over the rib, and Sherlock winces at the horrid blue-black bruise, which will turn livid green in a few days. John has an open wound, a bad scrape on his side that accounts for the blood that has seeped down inside his shirt, ruining it. The physician tuts over this, cleans and disinfects the wound (John's breath hisses out, but otherwise, he makes no comment) and once again, his ribs are wrapped with soft pads. His palms are cleaned and also disinfected, but by this time, he is past caring. He is given a tetanus shot and handed pain pills to swallow. Which he does. Promptly.

John sighs. The pain meds will make him drowsy, where they will, undoubtedly, make Sherlock talkative. The evening does not look good for either one of them.

Still, Sherlock says nothing through all of this. He just watches. And observes.

He watches the young doctor care for John ( _both parents born in New Delhi; he was born, however, here in London. Schooled, heavens above, at Bart's? A Former Army doctor – back from combat?_ Sherlock can see no signs the doctor ever saw combat _\- or a scholarship student - changed his mind after graduating? Engaged; fiancée – female – also a doctor; seems to be attracted to John, so - bisexual? Or is he being plebian and boring and John will undoubtedly notice and tell him— )_

"Sherlock – just give it a rest tonight, all right?"

"All right John."

But he keeps an eye on the male doctor nonetheless, particularly where he puts his hands on John while wrapping his Army doctor's ribs. Eyes narrowed, the detective glances from the young doctor to John, then stands, fidgeting, while John's wounds are attended to.

Despite Sherlock's quiet assertations that neither one of them require an overnight hospital stay, their records are glanced at, an eyebrow or two is raised, and finally, they are both shown to a room - one with two beds, which Sherlock promptly shoves together by the expediency of unlocking each bed with the toe of one shoe, then slides them together as close as they will go, then relocks them both.

He eyes the hated hospital beds and grimaces. John slings his duffel in the corner of the room, looks once at the detective, glances at the beds, and then shakes his head and goes to shower. Sherlock walks around the room, still fidgeting, wondering if he can just barge in on John or if his doctor requires some private time, when the door to the loo opens, John sticks his head out, "Well, are you coming, you git or not?" Sherlock follows him into the small bathroom and shuts the door behind them.

Under the warm water, both men scrub each other quickly and carefully. Sherlock carefully avoids John's wounded side and in turn, John gently washes the dark curls, holding a dry towel over the new stitches so as not to get them wet. There is no question of standing under the hot spray for long as John's pain meds kick in and Sherlock notes that the doctor is nearly out on his feet.

The detective takes charge of getting them both out of the shower, then towels off his Army doctor – again showing particular care over the horrid, bandaged bruise - before drying himself. He finds a clean tee and boxers for John by the simple expediency of upending the worn duffle on the floor and rummaging through the contents. If John even notices this, he makes no comment. He lets himself be dressed like a child and put to bed. Some part of his tired brain tells him he might, if he is extremely lucky, be able to sleep for an hour before the first rant begins. Then he is out like a light, with a murmured "Sherlock."

Sherlock stands and looks at his soldier for a few minutes, then finds his flannel pyjama bottoms and ratty tee in his case, pulls them on, ignores the gowns that some well-meaning nurse laid out for both of them, and turns off the lights.

In the now dark room, he turns on one side and pillows his head on his arm, to watch John sleep.

Sherlock does not sleep.

Instead, his mind begins to play, over and over again, the events of that afternoon and of the previous weeks, but most particularly the horrid few seconds when he knew – _he knew_ – that he was about to see John buried under the rubble of the mansion entryway. He winces at the thought. Then replays each subsequent action afterward. Up to and including Rob Enders' death.

Sherlock frowns, attempts to store the memories away in their appropriate boxes, and utterly fails at this. He chalks this up to pure exhaustion, even the best of minds has to rest sometime. He turns on his back and stares at the ceiling, now just visible in the soft light that comes from their window, but this just brings to mind John's waking nightmares in St. Anne's, each time the Army doctor would waken, glance upward at the pale green paint, then fist his hands in the bed sheets and moan.

Sherlock's mind begins to slow and reorganize. At last, he is able to fit events into their proper brackets. And each time he comes to the bracket that holds the events which occurred in the lower level of the Wellington museum, when John saved their lives by shooting Sebastian Moran, his eyes narrow. When his memories proceed to St. Anne's – and John's numerous "episodes" when the drug cravings hit – he wishes to God there was someone else he could kill for what has been done to John Watson.

With a grunt, Sherlock turns on his side again. Might as well watch John sleep, since he will be getting none for himself, not with the pain meds in his system, not for a while at least.

_Someone else to kill._

He begins to think of Mycroft's words of warning, there on the lawn in front of the ruined mansion. He thinks of the three kidnappers. But there is no use in attempting to hunt them down and exact any type of justice for John.

His brother would have already seen to that.

This leaves this Adair person. Ronald Adair. Sherlock muses on the name while John snores quietly next to him.

From time to time, every few hours, a nurse comes in to check on the two men. Each time, Sherlock raises up on one elbow to watch as she checks John's vitals, (the doctor never awakens for this) then comes over to check Sherlock's. Each time, he waves her away with one raised eyebrow. And when she protests, he threatens to pack both of them up and leave against medical advice, in a rather hoarse but insistent whisper. And each time, she goes out, sighing.

Sherlock lets John sleep. He lies there and goes through the permutations, figures the bare minimum of rest his Army doctor requires in order to begin to recoup from the day's events and decides that letting John sleep until 4:00 is optimum. He dutifully lies quietly and lets John sleep until 4:00 in the morning and at that time, the detective has had more than enough. He needs to get John away and quickly or there is going to be real hell to pay in this hospital room.

He gets out of bed, dresses quickly in the light from the small loo, then lays out jeans and socks for John, decides John can remain in the tee he sleeps in. He wakens his doctor softly, by kissing him on the forehead and smoothing back the spikes of hair.

John opens his eyes, looks into Sherlock's pale orbs, visible in the light from the window and loo, and nods once. He swings his legs over the bed, sits up with a little help from the younger man, then looks around for his clothes. When John glances at his watch, he raises one eyebrow, more than happy that he was able to manage that many hours of sleep without Sherlock keeping him awake with constant conversation.

But the detective has been and still is, abnormally quiet. He watches as John dresses, then drops to his knees to assist when the doctor struggles to pull on the wool socks, as the ache in his side makes him gasp and hold his breath. Sherlock manages the socks, then the boots for John. He glances once around the room, notes that the only things they brought in with them are their cases, and he hoists both of these, over John's protests.

Then they simply leave. A nurse raises one eyebrow as she sees the two men walk by her but as they are not her charges, she shrugs and goes on.

Five minutes later, John and Sherlock's assigned nurse comes to their room – but the two men are gone.

OooOooO

Sherlock tosses their cases in the car and John gets into the passenger's seat. He says nothing to the detective. Once they are away from the hospital and back on the road, he fiddles with the radio for a moment. Sherlock drives through the dark with single-minded purpose. John wonders if the younger man even hears the music.

" _I looked out this morning and the sun was gone_

_Turned on some music to start my day_

_I lost myself in a familiar song_

_I closed my eyes and I slipped away…"_

John leans back in his seat and shuts his eyes.

Sherlock glances at him once, then returns his attention to the road in front of them. The early morning sky is still dark but faint tendrils of light appear on the horizon.

" _So many people have come and gone_

_Their faces fade as the years go by_

_Yet I still recall as I wander on…"_

Abruptly John sits up, viciously hits the off button, then looks out his window. Finally, he extends his right hand and Sherlock unerringly finds it, and continues to drive, one-handed. John squeezes the detective's hand once, then releases the long fingers and shuts his eyes again.

One hour outside London, Sherlock pulls the car off the main road and into a driveway. John opens his eyes, not surprised at seeing the small Bed and Breakfast they once stayed at while on one of their early cases together. The landlord owes them a favor. Of course he does. If not for Sherlock, his wife would be serving time for a murder she did not commit.

Sherlock parks the car in front of the lovely little inn, turns off the ignition, then turns to John. His eyes gleam in the darkness, faintly lit by the lights that shine softly from the porch of the B&B.

He looks at John. "John," he says hoarsely. His eyes beg the question.

John regards him for a moment, sees the want, the naked need, then simply nods. He gets out and stands as Sherlock retrieves both their cases, then checks them in. They are obviously expected and John is unsurprised. Sherlock must have texted or called the man earlier while he was napping.

The owner of the lovely little B&B, a Greek citizen by birth, stands in the open doorway, framed by the warm light behind him. His shaggy head bobs in excitement as he watches the two men walk up the short path. His wife stands directly behind him, both of their broad faces wreathed in smiles.

"Mr. Holmes! You return! And you bring your companion!" he says excitedly. If he thinks anything of the fact that two men are checking in together, he does not mention it. Nor does his wife.

The couple eagerly show John and Sherlock to their room, then go out and come back in, working as a tag team, bringing with them a thermos of hot tea and freshly-baked rolls, homemade apricot jam and butter, cheese, knives, plates, tea mugs, warm towels and a carafe of water. Finally, he leaves, clicking his tongue at his wife as he goes out.

The proprietor's wife stands for a moment, twists her apron shyly in her strong fingers. "If is needed – anything - please," she waves her hand at the old-fashioned telephone that sits on the table next to the bed. Sherlock nods at her and thanks her for her kindness.

She smiles again and then goes out, softly closing the door behind her with a click.

Sherlock walks to the door, locks it, then turns to John.

The two men are – finally – alone.

OooOooO

"I can't, John."

"Sherlock. You're wounded. Neither one of us is in great condition. Just get into bed, and let's sleep. We both need a kip."

"What I need now, my dear Doctor, is to have you under me. I need my hands on you – my mouth and my lips and my fingertips. Damn it, John. I need you. Now."

John tries to pull him close, but Sherlock just pulls back slightly and examines John's face, his dear tired face.

"You don't understand. No. How could you?"

"Understand what, Sherlock? Help me to understand then. Tell me what's going on in that head." He brushes a curl back from Sherlock's eyes and looks into the pale orbs.

Every once in a while, the madness that lives just under the surface – peeks out. Usually in the form of the brilliant, near blinding, utterly cracked grin that once caused Sally Donovan to raise an eyebrow. And now causes John to grin his own cracked smile back at this man. John has never been afraid or perturbed by this tiny peek of the turmoil that is Sherlock. He's always known it's there. And to be honest, this is why he stays. The difference that is Sherlock. The excitement of living with and working alongside this man. The sheer, utter brilliance that is Sherlock Holmes.

And the love. He stays because he has found something with Sherlock he never found with anyone else before – not even Drew.

"Sherlock, please. Just tell me—"

"Tell you, John? I'm tired of words. Tell you that I nearly saw you crushed to death? Tell you that of all the things that have happened to us recently, at any time, that I nearly - tell you what, John?"

He moves to put his hands around John Watson's waist. John does not move away . He looks steadily at his madman. And waits.

"John, I can't tell you, not without screaming. Words aren't working for me lately. So let me show you."

John looks into those amazing eyes. And smiles. It's a tired smile and Sherlock notes it. But he has no time for it now.

Sherlock gently, so gently, begins to unbutton John's shirt. John moves to help him and Sherlock stops moving immediately. And raises one imperious eyebrow. John sighs. He lets his arms go loose at his sides.

Sherlock finishes with the buttons, then pushes the shirt down and off John's arms and tosses it on the floor. He pulls off the simple white tee that John is wearing as an undershirt and tosses that on the floor, also. Then he gets to work on the belt and zipper of the jeans, the dark boxer shorts and finally the wool socks.

When he has his soldier naked, he slides his hand behind the white-gold head and gently lays him down on the bed. John goes quietly, willingly, all the while looking at Sherlock. He barely blinks. His heart begins to race and he finds breathing a bit difficult.

The two men look into each other's eyes and John sees something in the oddly pale ones that tugs at his heart.

He doesn't dare examine his own heart and emotions. He feels as if he has tumbled off a cliff and is still falling, in slow motion. He has no idea what is happening to him. Perhaps he is just exhausted - mentally, emotionally and physically. Too exhausted to sleep. Too drained to care if he ever sleeps again. God knows, both of them have the right to fall into bed and remain there, comatose, for days on end until their bodies and tired minds catch up with recent events.

John is not certain what, exactly, he wants. Or needs. But he knows that whatever it is, only Sherlock can give it to him. Perhaps, what it boils down to is this: John aches to be told, to be shown, in no uncertain terms, that someone needs him as he needs the oxygen he pulls into his lungs. John wants what he has always wanted his entire young life: to be totally and completely owned, to be adored, and cherished by another human being. He wants to be loved.

And he wants to be loved by Sherlock. Ever and always Sherlock.

Here, now, in the darkness of the small bedroom, John suspects that Sherlock feels the exact same way, that the detective has the need to show his doctor, his soldier, what John means to him, how he makes Sherlock ache to possess, to stamp as his own, every single inch of John Watson, until no one in the entire world can mistake who belongs to whom.

John Watson knows that he lives for Sherlock Holmes. He is just beginning to realise that Sherlock Holmes lives for John Watson. The knowledge leaves him breathless, eager to please. And trembling with desire.

Sherlock's eyes are a pale, pale blue as they look into John's. John recognizes this look, usually born of moments of fear brought about by the increasingly violent lives they live. John recognizes Sherlock's intent. And he sighs. Because he knows what comes next.

Sherlock lays his naked soldier out on the bed, then leaves John only long enough to dim the lights. He makes short work of his own clothes, then comes back to John and sits beside him on the bed.

He strokes his long fingers through John's hair, lifts the silken spikes, then lets them fall through his fingers. John's eyes are a dark, dark blue; they appear navy in the low light. He watches Sherlock's every movement, watches every trace of emotion on his love's face. John notes the near wild, haunted look in Sherlock's eyes, now heavy-lidded with lust.

He wonders if it mirrors the look in his own.

His breath becomes labored and he splays his fingers wide on the bed, then grips the sheets beneath him as his love leans over his face and begins to kiss his way down John's supine body.

"John," Sherlock murmurs. "John." As he kisses John, Sherlock's mind sees John the day he was taken, the day his Army doctor stood at the sink in the clinic, in his standard white medical lab coat and washed his hands, his back to Sherlock. Sherlock sees himself as he leaned over John and murmured in his ear. Then turned John in his arms and kissed him senseless.

He murmurs to John now. He whispers endearments as he bends over his soldier's aching body and kisses John on the forehead, all the while he runs his clever fingers through the blonde hair, now shot through with streaks of white. And gray.

He remembers the terror that set his heart pounding when he heard the twin shots over his phone – and ordered the cabbie to turn around and get the hell back to the clinic. He thinks of the huge circle of blood on the carpet, John's blood, as he kisses each of John's eyelids, then his cheeks and the tip of his upturned nose.

"John, sweet John, my John," Sherlock whispers. His long fingers cup John's head, one on each side of his doctor's temple, and he plants kiss after kiss on his love's thin lips.

John returns the urgent kisses; his eyes widen and dark with lust. "Sherlock –" he says in a near wrecked voice.

Instantly, Sherlock stops moving. He stops kissing John and just looks into those dark eyes. And in that unblinking stare, intent and focused, John sees the tiniest hint of madness, nearly imperceptible, yet present, that lurks just under the surface of the enigma known as Sherlock Holmes. John Watson recognizes the occasional madness in his lover's eyes, is not dissuaded by it, indeed, has learned how to live with it without ever attempting to change it. He wouldn't if he could.

John stops moving, as much as possible. He stops talking.

He looks into the detective's eyes and sees the traces of haunted desperation, of want and fear and, yes, the soft heartache that fills Sherlock's mind and senses. John's own eyes fill. He takes a breath, another. And struggles to lie there, unmoving, as far as he is able, in order to give this man what he most needs at this moment.

Sherlock notes John's willingness, nods once, satisfied, then goes back to kissing his way down John Watson's body. He smells the dried sweat on John's skin, as he kisses – then licks – John's nipples and nuzzles his lips among the golden chest hairs. Slowly, aching inch by aching inch, he works his way down John's nude body, as John struggles to lie there, tense with lust. And growing frustration.

And finally, as Sherlock continues to whisper to his Army doctor, to worship his Army doctor's body with tongue and hands, fingers and fingertips and those impossible lips, John begins to let himself relax. He stops trying to control the situation, stops trying to take charge – as he usually prefers to in their bedroom. And just lets Sherlock do as he will.

John stops thinking and lets his mind drift. He stops concentrating on what the younger man is doing with his warm, wet tongue, and instead, lets himself feel, as Sherlock laves each of John's nipples into a hard nub, while he slowly circles his pectoral muscles with his thumbs.

John groans, a slight sound that he tries to suppress, even as his cock springs alert between them, tight with mounting sexual desire and want. His muscles quiver and so does his cock as Sherlock kisses and murmurs his way down John's trembling form.

To give himself better access, Sherlock eases his full length onto the bed, and covers John's straining body with his own. The entire time he keeps one hand splayed out on each side of John's body, to hold it in place, to hold John prisoner, while he explores every single inch of sweat-damp skin laid out beneath him.

John works to remain as still as possible, as if he is actually physically restrained, in order to give Sherlock full access to every inch of his body. What Sherlock wants now is exactly what John wants. But the struggle to keep from participating, to allow himself to be held and used as if he is captive and helpless to resist, threatens to shred what bit of self-control John has left.

Sherlock leans over John's trembling body and kisses every inch of taut skin, from John's neck downward, that he can reach with his soft, insistent lips. And as he makes long, slow tortuous love to John Watson, Sherlock lets himself remember each moment of the past weeks, terrifying in their intensity, that only serve to remind him of just how much he stands to lose if John should ever die and leave him.

The knowledge makes him desperate to stamp his ownership into John's skin, to brand John Watson, in the only way Sherlock knows how, by using his own body, his lips, his hands and fingers and mouth.

John stops trying to control any aspect of their lovemaking. He just lets himself _be_. He knows that this is what Sherlock wants. No. He knows this is what Sherlock needs. To claim him –to reclaim John - as his own. To show John Watson who he belongs to. And to show him in great and exacting detail, and to take his own sweet time doing it.

John realises this is what Sherlock needs to do to assuage the utter terror of nearly seeing him crushed to death under the half-ton of rubble that claimed Rob Enders' life. To help the detective cope with the events of the past weeks, the events that threatened to tear the two of them apart.

John shuts his eyes and groans, keeping the sound as small as possible. His breath comes in small pants. " _For fucks sake, Sherlock, hurry_ ," he shouts in his mind.

John's body quivers with desire. His stomach muscles begin to contract and release, then contract again as the other man works his tongue over John's flat stomach, then goes lower to plant kisses in and then lick the golden nest of pubic hair. And lower still. John fights not to groan again aloud, and is able, barely, to suppress the sound.

Sherlock encourages John's reactions, by increasing the intensity of his kisses over every inch of John's now sweat-soaked body. He begins to kiss and nuzzle John's straining cock.

John's eyes snap open and he looks upward at the ceiling, then he lifts his head on trembling neck muscles to glance downward at the dark curls of his lover's head, the curls that lie along his stomach muscles, teasing and tickling him. He lets his head fall back on the pillow and he grits his teeth. His fingers clench in the sheets, twisting them into small knots.

Each time his hands itch to reach for Sherlock, to grasp at the other man's hands, to twine their fingers together, to reach for his madman's shoulders and arms, to encircle Sherlock's waist with his sturdy hands, or to grab at the tight muscles of his lover's arse and just tug the man closer to him, ever closer, every fucking time he has to remind himself to stop. To just stop. Otherwise, if he gives into his need to get his hands on Sherlock's body, the other man instantly stops moving. Sherlock freezes what he is doing, and lifts his head to look at John with those impossible eyes until John swallows, then relaxes his grip and lays his arms back alongside him. Then – each and every time – Sherlock nods and goes back to kissing. And licking. And nibbling.

Doing his utter best to drive John mad with lust.

" _This would be a hell of a lot easier on both of us,"_ John thinks, " _if Sherlock would just go ahead and handcuff me."_

John lies there, and thinks of how Sherlock has done this before, usually after a particularly difficult case. One that nearly ended badly for one or the other of them, usually John, as John is the one who carries the gun. John is the one who charges down the demons. And each time he is injured or ends up in hospital, once they are home, safe and together again, Sherlock undresses his doctor and then lays him out on the bed, forbids him to move, and proceeds to do everything possible to erase their mutual terror, to ease the pain of separation by imprinting his very soul on his Army doctor's body.

For his part, Sherlock whispers to his doctor as his relentless mind attempts to deal with the events of the past two months. He sees John, slumped against the wall in the lower level of the Wellington, his closed eyes mere purple smudges, his face covered with a sheen of sweat born of pain from Marcus Franks' cursed drug as it surged through his veins.

He kisses John and licks John and works his fingertips over John's muscles as he remembers John's face, gone utterly still and paper white, when his Army doctor's heart stopped and went into cardiac arrest there in the interior of the SUV as it hurtled down the road.

He nuzzles his way along John's engorged and straining cock and his own cock answers, quivering and urgent between them, as he remembers his sweet John as he lay sleeping, in a near coma state, for six long days and nights in St. Anne's, while Sherlock thought he would lose his mind with grief and worry.

And finally he again lives through the memory of John's body, unconscious, unmoving, and hears the creaking sounds of the entryway ceiling as it threatens to bury his Army doctor under mortar and brick and timber.

Sherlock releases his John's rigid member long enough to raise his head and demand in his hoarse, damaged voice, "Now, John," allowing his love to, finally, move against him, to strain and shout and call Sherlock's name, as Sherlock licks at the sweet head of John's tight cock, and finally swallows it down, taking it to the hilt in the soft, willing interior of his eager mouth.

At his lover's insistent, " _Now, John!"_ John Watson cries out at last, as he arches his spine and his hands dig and fist in the sheets – and he climaxes against the back of Sherlock's throat. He nearly screams in sweet release, as he rides the wave of desire, as sweat pours down his face, drops into his aching eyes and falls unheeded into the sheets.

His hands clench as he feels Sherlock suck and tug and swallow, he takes a deep breath at last, then in one insistent movement, he flexes his tense muscles, heaves upward and in a straining struggle of limbs and muscle, has the other man flipped over on the bed and beneath him at last. John grabs at his love's hands, pinning the injured wrists to the bed with his strong, demanding fingers, then bends his own head to take Sherlock's rigid cock in his mouth.

Sherlock shouts out in desire and want, and as John continues to suck and lick and pull at every straining inch, he lets the last of the horrid memories slip into their respective boxes in his mind palace. He battles against his Army doctor's strong hands, tenses every muscle he possesses, arches his back, and his body lifts off the bed as he climaxes in John's hot mouth.

A white, numbing cloud descends over Sherlock's mental processes, blanking out the horrid memories. Eyes closed, he slumps back against the bed, his body still, as his mind at last relaxes its relentless hold – and leaves him in peace.

John releases his love's spent cock, licks its damp length, then kisses the silken head. He turns his cheek and lies, unmoving on top of the other man's lower stomach. He shuts his eyes and inhales Sherlock's scent, the scent of musk and spice, sweat and desire and adult male. His hands grip at his madman's body, digging into skin and muscle, bone and sinew, holding his love to him as tightly as possible.

John lies on top of Sherlock's lower body and breathes. He is past the point of conscious thought, both of them are. Finally, finally, he eases his way back up Sherlock's body until he lies there, stretched out on top of the other man, muscle against muscle, damp skin against damp skin, his cheek turned over Sherlock's heart. John lies there, eyes closed, and listens to the steady beat.

OooOooO

John thumbs his mobile and calls a taxi to the B&B. They leave the car in the car park, key under the mat, and John sends Terry Roaman a text to tell him where to collect it.

Once the taxi arrives, John and Sherlock settle in the back seat and Sherlock automatically reaches for his soldier's hand. He laces their fingers together, glances down at their hands, and is reminded of a similar taxi ride two months earlier, just a day or so before John was taken. He regards their linked fingers in wonder. Then clears his throat.

"John, I have to tell you something about the flat," his voice is still hoarse but not as wrecked as it sounded a day earlier.

John turns from looking out his window and glances at their hands, then up at Sherlock's quiet face. He just shakes his head.

"No need, Sherlock. Mycroft told me, well, most of it. The flat was nearly destroyed and most of it has been fixed. Don't fuss."

Sherlock sits there, his mouth open, then shuts it and his brows pull together. Bloody hell. But in retrospect, he decides this is one time he will go along with his brother's infernal meddling.

He nods. "All right, John." He turns to his window and wonders at John's quiet acceptance of the rather horrible circumstances.

John Watson just goes back to staring out his window. Neither man talks much on the way into London.

When the cab pulls up in front of 221 B, Sherlock sighs. For once, he pays the cabbie, instead of John. He and John get out, hoist their bags and then John just stands there and looks at the glossy black door. Sherlock watches him closely, almost anxiously, remembering Maggie Oakton's hurried words of warning. John traces a finger over the street numbers, then tries the door. It is unlocked. Which means –

Yes. Both men groan inwardly. They are that tired. But both men manage to put a smile on their respective faces. Mrs. Hudson stands just outside the door to her own flat, her hands joined together, waiting. When the men come in, she lets out an exclamation and envelopes both of them in bear hugs.

"Boys!"

Sherlock pats her on the shoulder, then glances at John. The doctor has been extremely quiet for the short trip from the B&B and now, he just smiles tiredly at their blessed landlady, murmurs something about "grabbing a shower" and begins to turn to rush upstairs, when Sherlock puts a hand on his wrist and shakes his head. John sighs, then turns back toward their landlady, who if she notices the small moment, pretends not to.

She smiles at them both. Sherlock feels his heart warm at the obvious relief evident on her features.

"Mrs. Hudson, we're both just a little tired and –"

"Now don't give me that, Sherlock Holmes. It's early in the day yet, obscenely early in fact, but I knew, I just knew you'd both be back this morning. I've been waiting for ages." She reaches behind her and pushes open the door to her flat, then glances at John, who has said nothing.

"I've got a proper breakfast ready and on the table and both of you can take a few minutes to eat a decent meal and tell me everything that has been going on before you burrow your way in."

Not entirely certain what "burrowing their way in" means, but thinking it sounds lovely, nonetheless, Sherlock follows John into her flat, after dropping their bags in the hallway. John glances around. It is obvious the wallpaper and paint are all new, as are several other items, but their landlady appears not to mind.

She hurries them both to her table, then begins to pile plates with food and lay them in front of both men. Cups of coffee and tea are poured, and they all sit.

And then Mrs. Hudson picks up her own cuppa and glances from John to Sherlock, and back again. "Now then, John Watson, it's obvious you're better than you were when I saw you in the hospital, although not by much. Too peeked. And the weight you've lost! And you, Sherlock Holmes—" She pushes forward a plate of his favorite fairy cakes toward the detective.

"Now then, young man, before I fill you in on my wonderful, but unexpected vacation, courtesy of that clever brother of yours, I insist." She looks at Sherlock, and her shrewd eyes seem to bore into his pale ones. "Start at the beginning and don't you dare stop, until I know it all."

Sherlock sighs. But she _has_ made his favorite fairy cakes. He grabs one, crams it into his mouth, then begins to speak. Sometime during the conversation, while Sherlock speaks, and Mrs. Hudson interjects, "Oh my goodness" and "I don't believe you, Sherlock, oh wait, yes I do!" and "What do you have to say for yourself, John?" There is a bang out in the hallway and Sherlock murmurs "Harry," just as Mrs. Hudson stands to open the door.

Harry Watson stands there, not wild-eyed for once, not even frantic. Calm even. She carries a small shopping bag and John groans inwardly, but Sherlock glances from the bag to Harry Watson, then to John, and shakes his head slightly.

"John! For Gods' sakes, can't you even let me know when you get back home safe? Do I have to hear everything from Mycroft Holmes' assistant?" She grabs her brother and pulls him into a bear hug but before Sherlock can warn her about John's injured side, she grimaces, pulls back, and looks him up and down. "You're hurt! Again!" She looks accusingly at the detective, who wonders if he is about to take another slap in the face from John's sister.

But then John just shrugs, pats his sister's shoulders, murmurs his apologies to Mrs. Hudson and says, "Come on, then. Let's go up and have a cuppa and I'll tell you all about it. What I can remember, that is."

Harry looks at Sherlock again and frowns. But she nods once, murmurs a polite hello to Mrs. Hudson and follows John upstairs. Sherlock watches them both go, then turns back to his landlady.

She looks at him with her shrewd eyes. "There's more that's gone on with the both of you, that much is sure." Then she shrugs. "Come on then, come back and finish your tea and eat something. Then you can get back to your man." She looks upstairs at John and Harry's disappearing figures. "I imagine she has a lot to tell him, as well," she says.

Sherlock looks at John's back, then sighs and follows Mrs. Hudson back into her flat.

"Ten minutes, then," he murmurs.

She nods encouragingly. And shuts her door.

OooOooO

Upstairs, John barely has a chance to glance around, before Harry sets the hot cuppa down in front of him, then opens the Tesco bag she has with her and pours her own glass of juice. John looks from the juice to his sister's face. He tries to put a brotherly grin on his face. His sister looks, well, wonderful. She is obviously sober. Her hair is longer, curling over her face, still the same dark blonde color. Her skin is toned and firm and darned if she doesn't have a slight tan. She looks happy . Worried about him, but happy.

He wonders if he and Sherlock have slipped through a time warp or if somehow, Mycroft's people have managed to succeed where he, John, has failed so many countless times before. He obviously has a great deal to thank the elder Holmes brother for and he makes a mental note to do so.

But then he tries to dissuade Harry from a long dissertation of their activities. Harry is having none of it. She looks him up and down, then sighs. Finally, she sets her glass down, leans forward, "Okay, brother mine. Start at the beginning and don't you dare stop, until I know every last detail."

John sighs. And takes a breath. He only hopes that downstairs, Sherlock is still being put through the same catechism. And that he can finish with his sister before Sherlock comes up the stairs.

He nearly makes it.

Sherlock comes into the flat, glances around, looks toward the kitchen where John and Harry still sit over their tea and juice, then hurries down the short hallway to their shared bedroom. He slams the door and John sighs.

"Never mind him, tell me all about the Holmes mansion," Harry insists. "And then I'll tell you about our vacation."

"Actually," John begins, "it wasn't the Holmes mansion and – wait. Did you say 'our' ?"

His sister nods her curly hair, beaming. "Clara and me. Or Clara and I. Oh for gods, sakes, John, I don't know which end is up at the moment but it was great!"

She finishes her juice, shoves the glass aside, then takes both his hands in hers. "But not 'great' for you, I know. I read the papers. Sergeant Donovan…and the ambulance driver." She bites her lip, then looks into John's dark eyes. "I'm so very sorry."

John nods, unspeaking.

"Something's wrong. Something bad. Tell me," she urges.

John looks at her. But he cannot discuss Rob Enders, not with Harry. Hell, not with anyone at the moment – and that goes double for Sherlock. He shoves his cooling mug of tea aside and tries to smile back at Harry.

"Your vacation sounds like a lot more fun. Come on, tell me."

She looks carefully at her brother, then grins. And starts to speak.

As she talks, she becomes more animated and waves her hands around. Sherlock comes quietly out of their room, glances at John, raises one eyebrow, then goes to the hall, retrieves a scarf and leaves the flat without a backward glance.

John watches him go. And sighs.

As Harry finally winds down, the doorbell downstairs rings, and Mrs. Hudson comes up shortly with a small package for John. He thanks her. She glances at him and Harry, then smiles and goes back downstairs.

Harry looks at her brother. "Well, go ahead. Open it. Don't mind me." She sips her second cup of juice.

John frowns. He knows very well what is in the package but he rips open the paper, then stares at the small black case. Without saying a word to his sister, he gets up, places the case in their fridge. And slams the door shut.

He goes back to Harry.

OooOooO

Hours later, long after Harry has left, and after Sherlock returns, then goes out again, John comes down from his old bedroom, where he still keeps a lot of his clothes. He momentarily forgot he no longer has any clothes, other than those he brought back with him from the mansion. In particular, the dark suit he has always kept for funerals and other solemn occasions is gone, he presumes along with the rest of their damaged and ruined possessions.

Inexplicably, there seems to be multiple boxes of what appears to be lab equipment stacked in the smaller bedroom. John glances around, notes the new paint, notes his old bed is long gone, presumably to make room for all the equipment, then walks down the steps again to their main living area.

The intense anger he initially felt has softened somewhat and now lies bubbling under the surface. But he knows it will erupt again, given half the chance.

He deliberately does not think of his precious box his Da gave him. The one that held his medals. He does not think of the box. Nope.

He frowns and sits in his chair for a moment, drums his fingers on the armrest. From time to time, John looks around their sitting area, really looks, not the cursory glance he gave it when they first returned.

Everything is the same. Nothing is the same.

The wallpaper has been replaced. Same hideous pattern. But the bullet holes are missing. He finds he misses the bullet holes. He does not, particularly, miss the spray-painted smiley face.

His chair has been reupholstered, obvious. It does not take a consulting genius to tell him this. And the fabric is the same color, but new. It smells new. Smells fresh and the cushions are even comfier than they were before. A man can really lean back and get lost in these cushions.

He hates it.

John finds this fact strange as it is really, truly more comfortable to sit in his chair now then before. He hates it because it is just one more reminder of how much they have lost. He knows it's a bit not good to become overly attached to material objects. And John has always been comfortable with less rather than more. _But damn it, his grandfather's box_.

Less rather than more. Right. Up until Baker Street, it was always less.

But that was before he realized he had a place he could truly call home. Before Baker Street.

Before Sherlock.

He hates it because everything, everything is different.

He wishes that Mycroft and Anthea, he supposes most of it was Anthea, had just replaced it all without trying to match everything up. He could get used to new. Or used. But he cannot get used to the fact that everything has been duplicated, the wallpaper, the fabric that covers his chair, their sofa, even the blasted window curtains. They tried to make it seem, make it feel _as if nothing at all has occurred._

It's as if Mycroft thought that he and Sherlock could just trip back in and pick up their lives where they had left them – what? Two months ago? Nine weeks - more?

Everything is the same. Nothing is the same. It's all changed. All different.

Even Sherlock.

And he, John, he is different.

And this is what he hates most of all.

He glances over at Sherlock's chair. Same thing. Replaced with a near exact duplicate, well, nearly. There is no chemical stain on the upper left-hand side where Sherlock walked into their sitting area, paying more attention to whatever was in the beaker in his hand then to where he was going, stubbed his toe on the leg of his chair, and ended up spilling some toxic "something" all over the upper side of the cushions.

John misses that stain.

It's as if he and Sherlock are part of some sort of experiment. At least, this is how John views it. He has no idea what the detective feels about the changes. About his brother's attempt to make their little world comfortable, appealing, make it appear that nothing horrendous has occurred. He guesses that Mycroft's misplaced, albeit well-meaning motive was kindness.

Mycroft simply did not want his brother and brother-in-law to come home to too many – _differences_.

John could have saved his brother-to-be the trouble. As it is, he feels off kilter. Out of whack. Strange.

_Or is that the chemicals still in his bloodstream talking?_

He gets up and walks to the fireplace, notes the mirror above it seems to be the same, either that or Anthea was able to find an exact duplicate. He doesn't care. He never formed an attachment to the mirror and can live with it or without it. He walks over to their bookcase and notes that a few of the volumes appear older; but most of them seem newer, same titles but newer. Most of the books are Sherlock's and, again, she was able to find replacements for so many of them. But John notes that a few of the more "odd" volumes on chemistry and other subjects are no longer there. There are a few gaps. He wishes he could remember the exact titles. He could make it a hobby, a new pastime, to look on EBay and Amazon and other sites for replacements for those books. As a surprise for Sherlock, of course. He sighs and shakes his head then walks back to his chair and stands there, glances around the room again.

If he has to ask Sherlock the names, the titles of the missing books – and he has no doubt that the detective can tell him each and every volume that is gone – then what's the point? Where's the surprise? Still…John makes a mental note to jot the idea down. He can ask Sherlock later … later ….

John deliberately does not think of his original James Bond paperbacks. The books that Bill Murray gave him for safekeeping in Afghanistan. They are, after all, just old, nearly worn out paperback books. Easily replaced. Well, possibly. But it still stings.

He glances at one of the few items that appears to be unchanged – the skull. The skull has gone by so many names, the most obvious being Yorick, at which naming, Sherlock actually curled up a lip. There are days John refers to the skull as "she" and days he refers to it as "he" and some days he calls it Bob, just for the hell of it. But most days, John tries not to hold conversations with it at all or refer to the skull in any way, shape or manner. It is, after all is said and done, a human skull.

The fact that Sherlock has taken great pains to inform his flat mate that the skull is one of a female, in her early 30's, of Anglo-Saxon descent, a non-smoker, and was a redhead cuts no ice with John. And yes, he is a surgeon and a doctor. He notes these things himself. It's just that he tries not to think about them. (Except for the red hair. And he has, so far, refused to give the other man the satisfaction of asking him how in bloody hell he knows she was a redhead.)

It's a skull. A bone. It appears to have escaped undamaged. And somewhere in the back of John's mind, he finds this fact unsettling. The one item that is already dead, useless, was left intact, unscathed.

As if someone wanted to point up what they had lost by pointing out that what was left was _dead._

John fidgets a bit, walks here and there, touches things that haven't been touched in ages, such as the back of Sherlock's chair, the back of his own chair, the sofa where they first – only, it's _not_ the same sofa, now is it? His mind shies away from that and he goes over to the right-hand window. The curtains appear to be the same, but again, here is the same problem. They smell new. Fresh.

Everything is the same. Almost.

And everything has changed. Nearly.

Again, he thinks of Sherlock. Sherlock has changed. At first John thought he, John, was the only one who was just a tad _off._ And that would make sense. He is, after all, the one with the lasting physical changes. But all day, since they have returned, the detective has been different _._ Remote. Not cold, never that with John. Just _distant_. As if his thought processes are undergoing some sort of - John's thoughts break off. He does not know how to refer to what Sherlock does or is in the process of doing.

Is the detective deleting things? Or is he carefully filing them away somewhere in his – John shies away from the words mind palace. He hates that term and refuses to use it. Is the detective then filing things away, reorganizing, compartmentalizing?

Again, John wonders if Sherlock is deleting things. And if so, exactly what is he deleting? What happened to him, to John? Or what happened to Sherlock? Or what happened to Rob Enders, Sally Donovan, Jake Lynn and the others?

John walks across the room again, steps around the coffee table (same style; obviously used, but same design. Where in god's name was she able to find another exactly the same, but used?) Doubtless, the detective will break this one in shortly by the simple expediency of walking over it rather than around it. So that's all right.

But the one place John does not walk is to the other window, the window where Sherlock usually stands to play the violin. The window where his music stand still – well, _stands_ – currently devoid of sheet music. Most particularly, John avoids that one corner – the one where the Strad always sat in its case. The one where the beautiful violin lived. That corner is the Strad's corner. That corner is where the music lives. Or lived. And John avoids it at all costs. As he turns away, John wonders, idly, if there is a special level of hell for monsters who have it in them to destroy such a unique and beautiful object. To destroy the music. Or is he being ridiculous again? For God's sake, the violin had its own name. Which escapes him now.

Sherlock would scoff at his sentimental nonsense. But then he'd pick up the Strad and play for John, sometimes for hours on end.

And still they do not yet know if Sherlock will be able to play again. To angle his wrists the right way, to move his fingers the way he needs to in order to coax brilliance from whatever violin he ends up with as a replacement. John makes a mental note to get Sherlock to the specialist his brother has lined up … is lining up…whatever.

John can see that corner, the music corner, from where he sits. Of course, he can. He can see the entire room from where he sits, most of it.

He grimaces and goes into the kitchen to make himself a cup of tea.

And stops when he realizes that the cup he brewed an hour ago, after Harry finally wound down and left, still sits on the corner of the table. He frowns as he doesn't - quite – remember making the cuppa but he must have done. God knows, Sherlock hasn't been there to make it.

The detective returned five minutes after Harry left, as if he had been outside, waiting (for all John knows, this is exactly what happened.) He glanced around, went into their room and slammed the door. Ten minutes later, he came back out again, looked John over once, from head to toe, nodded, placed a new mobile phone on the kitchen table, then left the flat again without a backward glance, without saying a damned word. And left one slightly exasperated and confused flat mate behind him.

Alone.

John has not seen the detective since the last time he rushed out. He wonders if he will see him again this day. Or if Sherlock is wandering the London streets, reacquainting himself with all of his haunts, checking in with his homeless network, scaring up a case with Lestrade.

A thought occurs and John opens the fridge. No. The small container that held the human corneas is gone.* There is precious little in the fridge and none of it bears human DNA.

It's all just food.

John slams the refrigerator door shut, noting that apparently it escaped unscathed, then trails his hand along their table. It's the same table. There is the same scar, the same acid stains. He can, barely, see a tiny bit of yellow paint along the edge of one foot. Obviously, whoever cleaned it missed a spot. He sits in one of the chairs and bends over to get a closer look at the yellow paint. He chips away at it with one fingernail and is able to remove most of it. Then he just raises up and sits there, fingernails tapping on the table.

Nothing is the same. Nothing.

Not even Sherlock.

John abruptly stands up, then goes down the short hallway to Sherlocks' bedroom, their bedroom. He glances at the bed. The one new item in the entire flat that he heartily approves of is the larger bed. And the new bed covers. And the dark carpet.

He walks over to the closet and opens the door and then just stands there, aghast, when he realizes that most of the detective's suits, his shirts, all articles of clothing - everything is also gone, or nearly. A few items remain, the clothes that the younger man wore in the mansion. John has no memory, or precious little, of what Sherlock wore in the hospital, in St. Anne's. He remembers the skin-tight black jeans and the purple shirt, and that's about it.

But then, he always remembers the purple shirt.

Damn it. He needs something to wear to the funeral. He refuses to go to Rob Enders' memorial service dressed in jeans and a button down and jumper.

John goes back out to the sitting room, snags his wallet where he'd tossed it down earlier on the side table next to his chair and checks the contents. He has a little cash. But no debit card. He frowns. Of course, he doesn't. John Watson is, after all, dead.

" _Appropriate observation,"_ John thinks. Because he _feels_ dead. _"Stop this bullshit. Just stop it."_

He has to have something to wear to the funeral, once Anthea sends him the arrangements. Bloody hell, but he's going to have to ask Mycroft for help.

Right on cue, he hears the text chime and whirls to find his mobile. Right. He tossed it on the kitchen table earlier. He retrieves it and thumbs the message button.

**Do not fret, my dear doctor.**

**All will be taken care of.**

**MH**

He thinks about texting Mycroft back, then decides against it. John grabs the now cold cup of tea from the table, takes it back into their living area and sets it on his side table. Then he simply sits, stretches his legs out in front of him and proceeds to sink into what his aunt would have called "a right, royal snit."

_What the hell is wrong with him?_

The text chime sounds again.

He ignores it.

The text chime sounds again.

John sighs, picks up his mobile. Glances at the screen.

**Please answer the doorbell in a few.**

**MH**

He deletes it.

**It's important, John.**

**MH**

He deletes it.

John shouts out to the room, to no one and nothing in particular. He most definitely does not direct his shout to the skull.

"Bloody hell, Mycroft, why don't you just call? I'm sitting right here. Call, damn it."

John tosses the phone onto the table and takes a sip of cold tea.

His phone rings.

"John."

"Mycroft."

"Yes, I prefer to call, however, I felt, given your present state of mind –"

"Where are they, Mycroft?"

"John?"

"I'm not an idiot, Mycroft. Don't treat me like one. The bugs. Where did you put them this time?"

Pause.

"That would be telling."

"Yes. And your brother and I will have a wonderful time looking for them once he returns. And we will find them, Mycroft."

Pause.

"John – about Sherlock -?

"I refuse to discuss Sherlock with you right now, Mycroft. I –" John rubs his forehead. Damn, but the headache is coming back again. He holds his right hand in front of him and watches as it shakes, as the faint, so faint tremors begin to run under the skin.

His blood seems to slow in his veins and it feels superheated. And the subcutaneous itching is – nearly – back again. Not as bad, though. He guesses he should be grateful for small favors.

_Dear God, what is wrong with him? They're alive. He and Sherlock – alive. He should be grateful. Grateful, damn it. And maybe that's the problem. He's alive and so many others aren't. Especially…damn it, it's been years since he lost a man….one of his – lost. Lost._

John closes his eyes and groans.

" _I'm a soldier. I should be used to this. Life is not fair. War is never fair. And make no mistake about it, we were at war. I'm a soldier, damn it. I've lost men before. Then why –"_

"John? Are you all right?"

"Yes, I'm fine. Just fine. Thanks for asking."

_That's it, isn't it? Because you're not a soldier anymore, Johnny boy, now, are you? And you're not at war. Not now. No one's life depends on you, not any more."_

John pinches his nose between his thumb and finger and thinks of the effort involved in standing up, going to the fridge and pulling out one of the small black cases that Anthea had sent over by courier. Then filling the hypo, finding the alcohol wipes, swabbing his elbow, injecting Dennison's drug. Then lying down until it passes. Lying down until he sleeps it off. Lying down until the world comes to rack and ruin, dissolved in flame. Lying down until -

_Shite. The sooner Dennison moves him to oral meds, the better._

Suddenly, he is utterly, totally exhausted.

"John?"

" _I can't do this right now,"_ he thinks. " _I can't. Everything. Everything is different. Our entire lives, what we feel, how we feel, the way we live here, it's all wrong. Everything. So bloody wrong. And I'm useless. Completely, utterly useless. What made me think that I could just waltz back in here and pick up where we left off and everything would –"_

"John? Please answer."

John drops his hand to his lap and looks at Sherlock's chair.  He tiredly lifts the mobile to his ear again.

"Mycroft?"

"John, please tell me what you need."

"Mycroft? I need - No. Strike that. I want –" John takes a deep breath and then just leans back in his chair. He shuts his eyes and holds the phone to his ear. The tremors are more pronounced now. He wonders if Mycroft can see them on the camera bugs.

"John –"

"Bloody hell, Mycroft. I'm fine. Just – tired. That's all. We're both exhausted. And I have a funeral to go to and no bloody suit and—'

The doorbell rings. John jerks up, as if scalded.

"I assured you that all would be taken care of, John," Mycroft says quietly. John strains to listen. Then he just shakes his head.

" _Give me Rob back. So I can send him home to Anthony. Can you do that for me, Mycroft Holmes? Because you asked me what I need."_

"John? Just answer the bell. We'll talk later. And, John?"

He can hear Mrs. Hudson speaking with someone now and realises, with relief, that he does not have to stand up and walk back down the stairs. He wishes he knew where this exhaustion comes from. It threatens to lay him out right here in this stupid chair.

"Still here, Mycroft."

Mycroft hesitates for the barest of moments, decides now is not the time to bring up the two probable Knighthoods for helping expose and dismantle a terror cabal, bent on bringing down the British government.

"John, take your injection. Please."

John's soon to be brother-in-law's voice is suddenly low, concerned.

He must stop thinking of the man as his "soon to be" and just accept him as his "Is." It will be a great time saver and it's the truth, after all. Mycroft has been wonderful. Completely, unexpectedly, wonderful. Terrifying. He is, after all, Mycroft Holmes. But still wonderful. And John appreciates it.

His brother, it is then. Odd, that. Him having a brother. Or, rather, a brother-in-law.

"John?"

Something else he will drop. The hyphens. Mycroft deserves better than a hyphenated title. His brother, then. After all, he doesn't have to refer to the man as such out loud. Just in his thoughts. His chaotic, confused, tired thoughts.

"John?"

John has an inexplicable urge to weep. For who or what, he doesn't know and couldn't tell you. He feels the hot, itching tears sting behind his eyes. And he pinches his nose again, hoping to stave them off. He has no idea why, but he just wants to cry.

He doesn't. Instead, John Watson says resignedly, "Yes, Mycroft. I'll take the bloody injection."

"Good. That's good, John."

Mycroft hangs up. John tosses the mobile onto the small table. He can hear the tapping sound of Mrs. Hudson's feet on the stairs. She comes into the room behind him.

"John, dear? A young man delivered these for you just now. I signed for them."

John grimaces and stands. He turns to face Mrs. Hudson and by the time he has turned, his fists are loose by his side, rather than clenched, (he does not want this precious woman to think he isn't glad to see her) and he has managed to put a smile on his face.

Mrs. Hudson stands there with several boxes in her hands, flat boxes, the type that holds clothing. Men's clothing. Suits, to be exact.

John nods. _Of course. He and Sherlock now have suits to wear to the funeral of the man who died saving him – died for John Watson. And then he can put on the same bloody suit and visit the graves of the other two people who died for him as well, Sally Donovan and Agent Baker. Oh – he was forgetting Cynthia McReedy's brother, Agent McReedy._

And what was the name of the man who died at the scene, at the clinic that day, shot in the head by Moran?

 _For shites' sake, he can't remember the man's name. Did he even know it_? _Five people? Five? Five lives gone? Obliterated, because of him. Is he, John Watson, worth five lives?_

Wonderful. It's turning out to be a wonderful day. And he still has no earthly idea where Sherlock is.

_Is he worth one?_

John smiles at Mrs. Hudson and goes forward to relieve her of the packages. He notes two more boxes sit on the floor at her feet in plastic bags, the sturdy kind with handles.

Shoes, obviously.

Great. Just _great._

_Is there any way - on God's green earth - that John Watson is worth one Rob Enders?_

As he takes the packages from her, his hands begin to shake in earnest.

OooOooO

"Sherlock, dear. A word." Martha Hudson stands in the hall, at the bottom of the seventeen steps, wrings her hands.

Sherlock comes in, a package in his hands and frowns at her _. John. Something has_ _happened to John._

But before he can dash upstairs, she puts out one hesitant hand.

"No, dear. Leave him alone. Just for a few. He's resting. I need to talk with you, Sherlock. Please."

He hesitates, weighing the chance for new data about John against being with John. Being _with_ John wins, hands down.

"Mrs. Hudson –"

"Now, now dear. I told you, he's sleeping. He's all right now. At least for a while. I just checked on him again. And we haven't left him alone. Your clever brother saw to that. Someone is with him."

For fuck's sake, if something has happened to John, why didn't Mycroft call or text him? He is going to throttle his brother the first chance he gets.

His pale eyes search out hers and she swallows. She has never seen Sherlock Holmes so – lost. No, that's not the right word. The right word for John, yes. John is lost.

For Sherlock … anxious? Hurt? Confused? Scared? Yes, she concurs. All of those. Sherlock is scared. That doesn't seem right, though. Not for him.

He swipes one bandaged hand through his curls and frowns at the woman who has been surrogate mother to both of them, he and John. Lord knows, he could never go to Regina Holmes and put his arms around her and just hug.

"What happened?"

He looks from the seventeen steps to her, wonders what to do with the package in his hand. She takes it from him gently and tries to usher him into her flat.

"Sherlock, let's go inside for just a moment, just for a minute or two. No longer, I promise. I don't want to stand out here in the hall."

He follows Mrs. Hudson into her flat – and wonders what is wrong with him that he didn't know immediately that another person was with John – he should have known from the moment he entered 221 Baker Street.

Have all his senses been affected by John's abduction?

Seven minutes later, Sherlock Holmes leaves his landlady's flat and takes the steps two at a time to their flat.

OooOooO

_When you try your Best, but You don't succeed …_

_When you get what you want, but not what you need_

_When you feel so tired, but you can't sleep_

_Stuck in reverse…_

Sherlock rushes into their flat. And stops dead as Dr. Thomas Fields rises to his feet, from where he has been sitting on their sofa, reading.

Dr. Fields removes his glasses, folds them and places them carefully in his shirt pocket, then regards the tall man in front of him.

"Good to see you, Sherlock. Now, don't fuss." This as Sherlock nods once at his family physician, then prepares to hurry down the short hall to their bedroom.

He raises one eyebrow at Fields. His doctor comes forward and extends a hand. Sherlock looks at him, then takes Dr. Fields' sturdy hand in his own.

He glances from Fields' comfortable face down the hallway, toward their room. Toward John. Fields notes it. He bends to retrieve his large medical kit.

"He's fine now, lad. I was in the city, visiting a patient. Your brother called me and asked me to look in on John. He apparently suffered an attack this morning here in the flat. But your rather remarkable landlady was here – Mrs. Hudson, correct?"

Sherlock nods impatiently, his heart pounding in his chest. He takes a breath to slow down his heart rate.

"She did remarkably well. She found his medication, filled a syringe and managed to give John his injection while he talked her through it. He's sleeping now. I think he'll be all right. Provided he takes his medication on time from here on out."

Fields' sharp eyes peer at the younger man. "You will make certain he stays on his schedule now, won't you? He seems reluctant to take the injections. I take it that there have been – events – at that house you were all staying in. Dreadful business. You must sit down with me soon and tell me all about it." He glances at his watch. "I have another patient to see."

At their doorway, Thomas Fields turns to regard Sherlock as he stands there, anxious to get to John.

"Sherlock? John is not quite himself at the moment. I believe, given time and undersanding, that he will come out of this just fine. Call me, if you feel he needs medical attention. Or if you just need to talk."

Sherlock nods mutely, his eyes wide. "Thank you, Thomas."

Dr. Fields nods again, and then he's gone. Sherlock stands there and listens as the physician's slow measured tread takes the steps one at a time. He turns to look at the hallway that leads to their room.

OooOooO

_Tears run down on your face_

_When you lose someone you cannot replace …_

"John?"

The doctor does not answer, but Sherlock can see that his eyes are open. John's eyes gleam in the near dark of their room.

He can hear John's breath as it comes in small huffs, as if his Army doctor has to make an effort to breathe. As if it's nearly too much trouble to draw in oxygen, process it into carbon dioxide, then release it again.

"John?"

No answer.

Sherlock studies John's quiet form for a few more seconds, then nods once and turns to his bureau, yanks out a drawer and finds some items. He undresses and dresses as quickly as possible, tosses the expensive suit and silk shirt on the floor and steps over it to reach the bed.

John still does not say a word. He just stares in front of him, not watching the detective. Not watching or seeing much of anything at all.

Wearing only the flannel pyjamas and the grey tee and a pair of John's wool socks to protect his heeling ankles, Sherlock slips into bed behind his soldier and presses himself along John's entire length. He covers them both over with the new duvet. _(Steel_ _grey and navy. Masculine. Understated. Matches the curtains. And the new dark rug. Anthea, obviously_.) He makes a cocoon of his left arm and cradles John between his arm and shoulder, ignoring his bandaged wrists. He pulls John's head and body toward him, gently. The doctor comes willingly, but otherwise makes no sound. Sherlock wraps his right arm around John's chest and presses his hand against the other man's heart.

He can feel the beat through his palm and fingertips.

He shuts his eyes and rubs his cheek into the silky hair, the hair that nearly shines in the small light from their window. Sherlock's breath is warm against John Watson's hair.

He whispers quietly, begins to stroke through the silken mass with the fingers of his left hand. He leaves his right hand over John's heart.

"Tell me, John."

Nothing. Then a few seconds later, his Army doctor shakes his head slightly.

"Can't. Don't ask."

Sherlock's fingers stroke through the bright hair, lifting the strands, letting them fall. He sifts John's hair through his fingertips, relearning his Army doctor, his soldier, re-connecting with the other half of his soul by sense, touch, smell. He bends his head and buries his nose in John's hair. John's hair smells like the color green. He knows the other man would not understand this. But as he has no intention – ever - of telling John that his hair smells like the color green, then they will be all right.

No. Green is wrong. Like – Sherlock once went hiking in the Alps with his mother and father and older brother. He was very young and very much excited about the trip. And he took every opportunity to examine each rock, every plant, bush and tree, and despite Mummy's strict admonitions not to do so, he still managed to secretly pull some of the plants from the rocks by their roots, then wrap them carefully and place them in plastic bags to preserve them. Some, he tasted. Until Mycroft noticed this and put a stop to it.

But mostly he smelled the plants. There was one, a grayish-green plant, with white star-shaped fuzzy flowers. It smelled nice. Fresh. It smelled green. And since then, Sherlock has associated that flower, that sprig of Edelweiss with the color green. And now with John Watson's hair.

John's hair smells like Edelweiss. Fresh. Soft. Green.

Sherlock turns his cheek slightly and nuzzles against John's neck. He continues to stroke through John's hair. He murmurs things occasionally. He's not certain what.

But he knows that this is what John does for him, does for Sherlock, when the black mood descends. The mood, more and more infrequent now, thank goodness, that threatens to obscure out his mental processes, drown out his thoughts, cover his soul in something cold and wet and gray, even stop his heart. If it were possible for a mood to do that.

And when the black mood comes, John comes to Sherlock. John lies next to him, as close as he can get, and strokes through the dark curls and murmurs. Over and over again. Sometimes for hours. And he never leaves the detective's side. Never. Not until the mood lifts.

So because John does this for him, Sherlock does this now for John. He strokes through the blonde hair and whispers tiny endearments. Over and over again.

And he waits. And while he waits, he watches the pale afternoon light become less pale, more dark. Then darker still. Until all that comes through the small cracks of the curtains is violet, then dark blue, then truly black, until just the yellow of the street lamps remain.

He waits while London settles down for the night. He waits while his beloved city becomes quiet and drowsy and secretive, filled with the knowledge that lives in all the dark places, the hidden places, the corners off the main streets, the dips in the pavement, the places under bridges where his homeless network live, the alleyways and side streets, the embankments, the short walk that leads to Angelo's, the steps that lead down to the Thames, and the steps that lead, eventually, back to Baker Street. Back home.

He waits for John.

And all the while, Sherlock murmurs to John Watson. He tells John how much he loves him. He tells John how much John means to him. How he, Sherlock, was nothing until John found him. Found him and saved him.

But most of all, he tells John how grateful he is that the doctor has come into his life. He tells John how he had no interest in love, the emotion, the process, before John. He tells his soldier doctor how his heart, long suspected to be nonexistent, sprang into life once John looked into his soul – and found something there worth keeping.

But he does not remember ever telling John this before. So he tells him now. Over and over again. And all the while, he strokes through John's blonde hair. And keeps his hand over John's heart, to keep it safe.

He can feel, he can almost hear his Army doctor blink in the dark. But John says nothing. Eventually, as the dark outside their window becomes absolute, from time to time, John begins to sigh. It's a bone-deep sigh. As if he's expelling sad thoughts or memories or trying to. As if he's trying to come back to himself. Back to Sherlock. But he's very far away from Sherlock at the moment. The detective recognises this. And it takes effort and concentration to find his way back home, hence the sighs.

Sherlock waits.

And as his soldier finds his slow way back to him, he never stops stroking John's hair, or murmuring to him.

Eventually, they fall asleep, back to front, hearts beating in unison.

And in the morning, when they wake, they wake together, in each other's arms.

Sherlock and John.

John and Sherlock.

Together.

Just as it should be.

_Lights will Guide You Home_

_And ignite Your Bones_

_And I will Try … To Fix You._

The End

THE BOYS OF BAKER STREET

 Lyrics from " _Fix You"_ – Coldplay

*THERE BUT FOR THE GRACE OF JOHN WATSON

OooOooO 

THIS WORK IS A TRILOGY. Book three is currently being posted out on fan fiction dot net. My name there is the same without the 'e'. It's skyfullofstars on that site. I have not posted ANGELS to AO3 yet, due to the death of my beloved husband earlier this year. ANGELS is up to Ch. 16. It has been on hiatus while my family and I dealt with this devastating occurrence; however, with the help of friends and family, and particularly SHERLOCKSSCARF, I am about ready to post Ch. 17. July 9 2013.

SHERLOCK and JOHN – REBELLION OF ANGELS.  Part one:  ACCLAMATIONS will be posted to AO3 when book one is complete on fan fiction dot net. Thank you for your kind messages of hope and healing. And thank you for your wonderful comments on this trilogy. I treasure every word. 'sky'


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